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- THE 

"QUEEN OF THE DRAMA!" 
MARY ANDERSON 

HER LIFE ON AND OFF THE STAGE. 

TOGETHER WITH 

SELECT RECITATIONS 
FROM ALL THE GREAT PLAYS 

IN WHICH SHE HAS DELIGHTED TWO CONTINENTS. 



%y^ 



BY HENRY L. WILLIAMS. 

Translator of "The Wandering Jew ," " The Hunchback of Notre 
Dame," "Theodora," etc. 

OCT 24 1885 

VVASHl 

NEW-YOEK: 

PUBLISHED FOR THE TRADE 

NO. 3 NORTH WILLIAM STREET. 

Copyright, 1885, Williams & Co. 



.At 






CONTENTS. 



Life of Mary Anderson— Off and On the Stage— m the 

United States and Great Britain, 5 to 46 

Select Recitations. 

Execution of Mary Stuart, Swinburne, 45 

"By the Sea," Mrs. Frances Hodgson Burnett 47 

Balcony Scene, Shakespeare, 49 

Grief of Constance, " 54 

A Dream of Miriam, Tennyson, 57 

Master Walter's Ward, Knowles, 59 

The Wife's Supplication, Milman, 61 

Greek Girl and the Barbarian, Maria Lovell, 64 

Margaret, Tennyson, 69 

My Husband, Hawkins, 71 

Round the Bivouac Fire, Cowan, 74 

Cry of the Poor, Buchannan, 78 

Countess and the Serf, , . . .Knowles, 82 

The Idiot Lad, Overton, 86 

The Lovers, Bidwer, 88 

Two Women, 91 

The Sunrise Never Failed Us Yet, Celia Thaxter, 92 

The Neglected Child, Bayley, 92 

Red Riding Hood, Whittier, 94 

The Roman Maiden in Love, Knowles, 95 

To Mary, Cornwall, 96 

Recalled by a Touch, Charlotte Perry, 97 

The Wife's Despair, Shiel, 97 

The Maid of the Inn, Southey, 98 

The Seasons, Austin, 102 

[iii] 



IV. CONTENTS. 

The Relief of Lueknow, , Lowell, 103 

Ophelia's Mad Scene, Shakespeare, 105 

One in Blue and One in Gray, Hare, 10G 

The Fair Advocate, Shakespeare, 108 

The Sleep- Walking Scene, " 111 

The Penitent's Lamentation, Howe, 112 

Three Prayers, Clement Scott, 113 

A Queen's Defence, Shakespeare, 114 

Somebody's Mother, ' Mary D. Brine, 115 

Christmas Memories, Clement Scott, 117 

Death of Egypt's Queen, Shakespeare, 119 

Persevere, Brougham, 120 

Father and Daughter, Shakespeare, 122 

Telegraph Clerk, Clement Scott, 124 

The Royal Widow Wooed, Shakespeare, 126 



LIFE OF MARY ANDERSON 



"The Advent of the Star." 

On the 28th day of July, 1859, Mary Anderson was 
born at Sacramento, California. She was left a half 
orphan, by her father being killed in the Confederate 
States service at the destruction of the defenses of 
Mobile, August 5th and 6th, 1861, the child being but 
little over her second year. 

"Old Kaintuck's" Claims. 

Only six months after her birth, little Mary was 
taken by her mother to Louisville, where she was being 
brought up under maternal care. Both father and 
mother had some dramatic talent, and even as a tiny 
child, Mary showed more than the usual proclivity of 
the juvenile for mimicry in snatches of verse and dec- 
lamation. When her mother married again, there arose 
no bar to this innate tendency, as her stepfather, Dr. 
Hamilton Griffin, ex-surgeon of the Southern army, was 
similarly fond of the stage. 

The Budding Propensity 

thus fostered, "Mimi" (as the household caressingly 
styled her) imbibed Shakespeare/ till so surcharged 



6 THE QUEEN OF THE DRAMA' 8 

that it was not sufficient relief to repeat " Richard 
III." to admiring friends of the family in the "Back 
Parlor Theatre " but all over the house literally ; the 
colored servants being often startled by fiercely thril- 
ling outburts from the same tyrant " King Dick " or 
petrified by blood-curdling passages of " Hamlet." 

To feed this rising flame, the girl from her tenth 
year had been liberally taken to the play, and her im- 
itations of entire scenes with the mannerisms of the 
performers, were generally considered, making due 
allowance for the ease with which the gallant Kentuc- 
kian is kindled to enthusiasm by young womanhood, 
to prove much retentiveness of memory and ability 
to reiterate in clearness and fidelity. A good ear for 
music accompanied these gifts, and enhanced the ac- 
curacy of the repetition, where the piece had been mel- 
odramatic. 

In the midst of these gropings, not assisted by any 
one of professional experience, the round of charac- 
ters played by Edwin Booth at the Louisville theatre 
witched the girl and directed her inclination to the in- 
tellectual school of acting as contradistinguished from 
the muscular division of Forrest and McCullough. 
Edwin Booth remains her ideal of Roscius, and she 
still believes him unequalled in the Shakespearian 
walk. 

He was then no longer the youth who delighted, at 
the Winter Garden, the first worthies of New York ; 
but he had worn away much of the peculiarities of his 
father and his father's type whom Edmund Kean had 
eclipsed just as they had the Kemble tribe. He was, 
therefore, a glass of fashion which the aspirant had 
fortunately set before her. 



LIFE AND RE CI TA TIONS. 7 

She returned home, particularly fired in fancy by 
Booth's melancholy Dane, and with a determination to 
figure upon the boards where such an ornament was 
becomingly enframed. 

Her mother, with the Southern's pride, objected to 
a public exhibition of what she had commended pleas- 
antly within closed doors, but she was prevailed upon 
by her husband to bow to the girl's instance. 

Hence, in 1873, Miss Anderson began to study 
seriously for the stage under Mr. George Vandenhoff 
the veteran actor and well-famed teacher of elocution. 

There was hardly a better professor to have been 
selected for a pupil intended to tread the higher pla- 
teaux of Parnassus. Not merely was this gentleman 
a thoroughly inured comedian and tragedian whose 
name is entwined with the most sunny season of the 
British poetic drama, but to moral grandeur he has in- 
estimable claims. We may cite one memorable exam- 
ple when at the foremost comedy playhouse in London, 
he indignantly broke his engagement rather than ap- 
prove the foisting upon the classic boards of a notorious 
woman, not merely unworthy but incompetent, solely 
because her introducer was a money-lender to the em- 
barrassed manager. With such an instructor, there 
was no fear, it follows, for the scholar to entertain a 
mean opinion of her chosen class. 

This tuition went on some two years, relieved by 
that in dancing and gymnastics, giving half a day to all. 

In 1875, the declining glory of the American theatre, 
Miss Charlotte Cushman, that monument of devotion 
to sisterly affection, almost dying of an incurable 
malady, was at Cincinnati, purposing a visit for health 
to California's bracing climate. 



8 THE QUEEN OF THE DRAMA'S 

Mr. Vandenhoff had played with her "long time ago," 
and as she had acquired a great deal of stage knowledge 
from his god Macready, he thought it excellent to have 
her opinion and counsel upon the jewel that he was 
polishing. Miss Cushman came to the Griffins, and af- 
ter a brief interview with Miss Anderson, and hearing 
her recite, approved and predicted that with a contin- 
uance of this judicious training and some five years 
practice, she would rank among the first if not be the 
foremost, of her profession in the United States. 

We should like a faithful picture of that momentous 
interview : the grave Yankee veteran, hallowed by the 
fadeless memory of her conquering the plaudits of 
stubborn England, smiling serenely with the conscious- 
ness of a deserved meed eternal for her self-sacrifice 
and patient sufferings — and the daughter of the Gold- 
en State, at sweet shrinking yet glowing fifteen, her 
auburn hair shining with the reflection of the splendid 
aureole which the grey-head wore. 

Such was the impression upon the novice that a 
dream ensued : she thought that she beheld the old act- 
ress, on whom the hand of death so ostensibly lay, al- 
ready dead, and on her bier, covered with the flag of 
the country and her well-earned laurels. As she gazed 
spellbound, she heard the moving voice, as the trag- 
edienne rose from her casket, thunder, " Play 'Medea ! ' " 
But it will be many years before the slight, gentle suc- 
cessor of " Our Charlotte " attempts a character of that 
antique iron mould, and of the strict Cushman reper- 
toire, the gipsy crone in " Guy Mannering " is the sole 
one she annexed and that prematurely. 



LIFE AND BECITA TIONS. 9 

The First Appearance. 

Towards the close of 1875, taught, trained, fortified, 
Miss Vaulting Ambition, was looking about for that 
occasion which inevitably arrives to the properly pre- 
pared. 

On a Thursday the twenty fifth of November, 1875, 
having come with her stepfather from their out-of-town 
home into Louisville, they ran up against Mr. Macauley, 
proprietor manager of the theatre bearing his name. 
He was perturbed: some "star" actress had failed to 
make a railroad connection (it was Miss Jane Coombs, 
we believe,) and yet the bills were out "for Saturday 

the playgoers of Louisville were promised " Komeo 

and Juliet." "All the rest are ready, to the last but- 
ton of their gaiters," said Mr. Macauley, half in a moan, 
half in a forced jocularity, and no Juliet ! Upon my 
word, doctor, I would give you a stage box for life — 

and may you attain that of Joyce Heath! if you 

would lend me this young lady for Saturday ! " 

Appear as Juliet? that exacting character of which 
everybody knows it has been said that it is not possible 
in the nature of things since when the necessary study 
and experience have been obtained, the youthful charm 
which such a personage demands, must long have de- 
parted. 

But angels rush in where even folly would have hesi- 
tated to leap, the doctor snapped at the offer, the 
young lady left the twain to cement the compact, and 
flew home to tell her mother that " it was no longer 
night, the dawn had come ! " 

On Saturday, November the twenty seventh, then, 
Miss Mary Anderson made her first appearance on any 
stage — "a young lady of this city" — at Macauley's 



10 THE QUEEN OF THE DRAMA'S 

Theatre, Louisville, in the part of Juliet, in the borrow- 
ed costume of the stage manager's good wife. (It 
caught her under the arms, it is true, but the enchant- 
ed audience did not think the young genius cramped 
in the least ! ) 

The Southern Tour. 

Though the manager joined in the approval of this 
debut, the arrival of the actress engaged postponed 
any immediate result. However, during some weeks 
the press echoed the inquirer of that Saturday night's 
audience for the new-comer, and Mr. Macauley offered 
a regular engagement. 

It commenced on the twentieth day of the second 
month of the new year. The disadvantages were many : 
notably that of insufficient rehearsals, only one being 
given to each play, and those plays were important 
ones, of the long five-act class: "Fazio," the "Hunch- 
back," and their sort. Nevertheless, the success of the 
aspirant was encouraging, not merely by what the 
spectator thought, but what a business man did. 

Mr. John T. Ford, of Baltimore, believed he said in 
Miss Anderson, " the Coming American Tragedienne," 
so long prophesied. He engaged her for a long Sou- 
thern tour which was to afford her practice in sufficiency 
to enable her to confront the patrons of the Washing- 
ton and Baltimore theatres. Once again, Miss Ander- 
son was as fortunate as when Mr. Vandenhoff was her 
instructor, for Mr. Ford is one of those men of honor 
who carry out a business contract with perfect loyalty, 
and nothing was neglected during the circuit. (Mr. 
Ford is one of our few managers who make it a point 
to pay foreign authors even for those pieces which be- 



LIFE AND RECITATIONS. 11 

ing first acted abroad, can in strict law have no claim 
to that effect.) 

It was the Centennial Year, and all the money it was 
believed, was being garnered for spending at Phila- 
delphia. Nevertheless, the new "star" did as well, 
comparatively, in the Gulf and Atlantic States as Miss 
Neilson, the English favorite, in the North. 

In March, St. Louis acclaimed her first essay as 
Pauline, and the following month, New Orleans was 
startled by her audacity and self-abnegation in trying 
to make a duly hideous Meg Merriless, in remem- 
brance of that powerful impersonation of Charlotte 
Cushman. The JV. O. Bulletin considered the actress's 
physique too slight for the hardy crone, but concluded 
that the performance was still remarkable in one who 
had only once seen the part (i. e. heard Miss Cushman 
recite portions), and with the strength and experience 
which come with well-spent years, Miss Anderson will 
make no unworthy successor to Charlotte Cushman. 

In August, she appeared in her native state, and re- 
peated this Meg Merriless at the California Theatre, 
San Francisco, together with Evadne, Bianca, and "In 
gomar " for the first time, as Parthenia, since a favor- 
ite with herself and her admirers. 

At the end of 1876, Miss Anderson had become an 
object of interest to the theatre frequenters of cities 
where she was unknown by sight. This fact was clear 
that audiences liked and commended her, — whilst the 
journals spoke harshly, unjustly in fact to one so 
young, in novel surroundings. Why blame a mere 
girl for deficiences in "make-up" when, apart from a 
little rouge and powder, hardly more than fashiona- 
bles wear at a ball, she had no need to beautify her- 



12 LIFE AND RE CI TA TIONS. 

self. Why pretend the fine, supple and commanding 
form owed much to a costly wardrobe, when classical 
costumes are surely within the power of a limited 
purse, and no one was ever of the opinion that the 
Statue Bride, the Barbarian Chieftain's Subduer, and 
Harry Bertram's Protectress had been garishly attired- 
It was said that Chicago was captious simply because 
the rival city of St. Louis had belauded the rising lu- 
minary, but why the Baltimore press should have been 
more bitter than that of Chicago or San Francisco, 
was inexplicable, in fair play. Out of all the criticisms 
— honeyed or envenomed — came this succint report of 
"the Great Western Prodigy: "a girl of seventeen, 
five feet seven and a half in height, 140 lbs. weight, 
(these details would have been more suitable in "the 
nation of shopkeepers," we think) naturally talented. 
with a fine contralto voice. 

In 1877, the possessor of these gifts ventured to 
present herself as Lady Macbeth, at the National The- 
atre, Washington. She was not framed to offer the 
Scandinavian helpmate of the warrior, who rather hec- 
tored him into crime than cajoled him. But it was 
after the Mrs. Siddons' vein, a seductive creature who 
tempts her husband to seize the crown with a murder- 
er's reeking hand in order to have her children royal. 
But Miss Anderson was too young to embody the 
popular ideal, be it one or the other type, and it was 
such a shortcoming as Miss Kate Bateman provided in 
her youth when her appearance, slight, fair, girlish, in 
the scene to read her husband's letter from the camp, 
naturally suggested that Lady Macbeth had deputed 
her eldest daughter to apologize for her ! 



LIFE AND RECITATIONS. 13 

About this time an Acrostic was addressed to the 
young actress, which we here append. It is 'chiefly- 
notable because the writer already seemed to have di- 
vined the classical possibilities of the future Galatea 
realizing the ideas in form and feature of the Atheman 
and Corinthian sculptors. 

It must be remembered that at this time, Miss An- 
derson had never gazed upon the original of " that stat- 
ue that enchants the world" nor on those other fault- 
less marbles which seem to have leaped out of the quar- 
ry, perfect in all the attributes of loveliness, rather than 
to have been deftly carved by the inspired artist. 

That we have not sought "to paint the lily" will 
appear from this opinion of a famous French writer: 
" This lady's face is divinely fair and gentle, the ex- 
pression candid and fearless, the grace indescribable 
and the profile classic. Gerard would not have want- 
ed a more graceful or chaster model to paint Psyche 
receiving the first kiss of love." 

To Mary Anderson. 

M aid at whose birth the Olympian Muses Nine 

A ttended with their various gifts divine. 

R ight royally endowing thee that hour, 

Y oung Genius, with each Goddess' special power. 

A perfect form ! — Canova's marble grace ! 

N o hand save Raphael's ere could paint thy face ! 

D uctile as wax, to show in every part, 

E ach niching Passion of the human heart — 

R evenge, Pride, Jealousy, Remorse and Love, 

S uch as in all great Shakespeares heroine's move, 

O n thy charmed head Heaven's choicest blessings light, 

N or one cloud lower thy happiness to blight. 

H. L. W. 



14 THE QUEEN OE TEE DfiAMA'S 

1878 revealed improvement and testified that the 
modesty which had been hastily condemned as cold- 
ness was approved by the intellectual and refined 
classes, who again trooped to the theatre, no longer 
desecrated by flimsy spectacular farces, French sing- 
songs and cancans, and heavy adaptations from the 
still heavier German originals, themselves clumsy 
translations of Parisian comedies. 

After another Southern tour, to reward her first- 
made friends with a view of her justifying their old 
welcome, the promising actress went to Europe (June 
to September,) chiefly to replenish a wardrobe which 
would not place "the Hope of the Native Stage" be- 
low the Eousbys and Nielsons in respect to dress and 
jewels : in other respects, she was fully equipped. 

A letter to Madame Bernhardt was the key to all 
Parisian theatre doors, and this "pale shadow of 
Eachel " received her young sister in art quite cor- 
dially. 

As for Madame Eistori, a lady in all the unbounded 
meaning of the word, she has a sincere love for Amer- 
ica, and la Signorina Columbia was most affection- 
ately dealt with. 

There was no one on the English stage entitled to 
rank with the great: Miss Ellen Terry is a reflex of 
her elder sister Kate who, herself, at her acme, was 
often "played down" by her "understudy," Miss Ly- 
dia Foote ; Mrs. Kendal (" Tom " Eobertson's sister) 
is merely a great emotional comedian, inferior to Miss 
Clara Morris for power. Among the old stagers, Mr. 
Mead, Mr. Eyder, and Mrs. Stirling remain, irreplace- 
able. 






LIFE AND RECITATIONS. 15 

In fact, no one to copy, none to emulate, none to 
fear as rivals. 

Not to form a resolve to seize this unoccupied fane 
would have been incompatible with the daring tem- 
perament of an American. 

She returned home, still one of the youngest and 
about the most conspicuous star. 

In these few years, crudities had been brushed off, 
she had gained "repose, " and rather too much of the 
evenness which sensational actors, like Lemaitre, had 
denounced as inferior to the slurring intervals in or- 
der to capture with " points " 

TJie universal " they " began to contrast her with 
Madame Modjeska. 

Her popularity and drawing power were shown to 
to be increased ; in collegiate towns, students showed 
their " drawing power," by the way, in severing the 
traces of her carriage horses, and transporting her 
from stagedoor to hotel, as their substitutes. 

The Northern and Eastern cities beheld her in now 
familiar roles and as Bertha (" Daughter of Roland," 
a life-lacking translation from the wordy modern 
French,) and Julia (first time in New York,, 5th Sept. 
1878.) Still unequal, too often forgetting the individ- 
uality of the part, there yet arose evidence of that 
seeking to improve which the appreciative play goer 
values as much as perfection itself, for it irritates his 
attention into perpetual activity. There had been an 
absurd calumny that the praises of the foreign dra- 
matic eminences had turned " Our Mary's " head, but 
she has the true sense of the born actress and as 
Macready used to say "crowded houses or with only 
two in the pit, let us not put on any airs." 



KJ THE QUEEN OF THE DRAMA'S 

The New A " 'i press, laying aside gushing "as out of 
place, tr< . . a the performances in a tone grateful to 
the recipient and pointed out little defects purely for 
correction in order the most promising standard-bear- 
er of American Art should be absolutely faultless when 
carrying the flag to conquer new worlds. 

This just and seemly tone was eminently due to the 
exertions of Mr. Sylvester M. Hickey and Mr. Pomeroy, 
whose firm yet fervid writings upon the tragedienne 
soon counterpoised and eventually overbalanced the 
extravagancies of the Out- Western papers which for- 
merly prejudiced the Atlantic cities against the subject 
of such strained eulogy. 

Galatea in the Gilbertian play "Pygmalion and Ga- 
latea" was added to the growing repertoire by 1882, 
during the summer of which year Miss Anderson, in 
her villa near Long Branch, meditated on " the Con- 
quest of England." 

The Actress at Home. 

The theatrical colony at the watering-place of Long 
Branch is unique. The European players who are 
recommended quiet are compelled to go far afield. On 
the contrary, the little rus in urbe of the American 
theatrical world is exclusive and, within it pale undis- 
turbed rest is really obtainable. The principal mana- 
gers and actors have villas ; that of Miss Anderson is 
a handsome house, altered after her own design, in 
Cedar Avenue. Shunning even the appearance of seek- 
ing notoriety, the novelist who chose her for a heroine 
could hardly say she "might be seen" on the spacious 
lawn with her handsome mother, her little half-sister, 
her brother (who acts with her in small parts,) and her 



LIFE AND REGIT A TIONS. 17 

deerhound Uno. But a glimpse may be 1 ben she 

rides out with her stepfather or brother Fi nk, who 
has become an actor, or cruises in her steamer the 
doubly appropriately named " Galatea." Within doors 
she follows Longfellow's advice that the high-type ac- 
tress should see a beautiful picture (that's herself in 
the morning mirror ! saith our pen involuntarily, prob- 
ably of gallant Limerick steel,) read a beautiful book 
(she tempers the classics with Dickens,) and her beauti- 
ful music (she sings to herself not unseldom.) Around 
her are theatrical mementoes, furniture from sales of 
dramatic queens of England, portraits and busts of her 
earliest idol, Edwin Booth, and of her latest, Henry 
Irving — quite refined, you see in taste. Here the 
"cold and classical "one unbends, aye, enjoys a humor- 
ous story, and even smokes a cigarette. Alas! the or- 
namental cattle are sold off, weeds throttle the roses, 
and their seems some foundation for the rumor that, 
after our farewell round of performances, Miss Ander- 
son will take a theatre in London. 

On the Eve of the Plunge. 

To prevent North America tilting up by the pre- 
ponderance of so much talent on the eastern board as 
that of Mr. Irving and Miss Anderson, Mr. Abbey de- 
termined to execute an exchange of the two articles 
from their own to the confronting countries. In Mr. 
Irving's London Lyceum Theatre, from Sept. 1st to 
June 1st, 1883, the acknowledged representative of our 
stage was to test the discrimination rather than the 
kindness of the British public. 

These were her credentials not as we might patri- 
otically state them, but in the words of Mr. Moy 



18 THE QUEEN OF THE DllAMA'S 

Thomas, the London Daily News dramatic critic: 
"Figure, slight but not spare; features, regular but 
full of expression ; pose of the small head, graceful ; 
manner girlishly pretty ; method, extremely winning ; 
bearing, singularly refined; voice, melodious; accent 
(that terrible American accent which is, usually a per- 
sonal peculiarity and not national at all !) slight and 
seldom unpleasing." 

Add, or, rather, place above all, unsullied reputation. 
Not one of her well-earned dollars has gone to hush a 
scandal or to advertise one that would allure an audi- 
tor of the badder sort ; and no lady ever blushed to 
learn that the actress whom she had praised was the 
heroine of some abomnable incidents in real life. When 
Miss Anderson sailed from New York for Liverpool, 
May the twenty-ninth, 1883, she was the pure, perfect 
chrysolite of the American Drama. 

"Parthenia" in London. 

Except that fifty thousand photographs of Miss An- 
derson had been sold in England, and this plainly to 
gratify the aesthetic, nothing whatever had been done 
in laying a train for an explosion. The result probably 
justifies her enterprises, but how unlike the usual mode 
by which " stars " have gained borrowed lustre ! what, 
no "extra" charged columns of encomiums in the 
theatrical and daily papers ! no inspired trumpettings 
the clippings from the American papers which were 
reprinted owing to their extravagance or that "wild 
western wit" which is Chaldee to the Londoner. And 
then in the interval before the ordeal, Miss Anderson's 
residence in St. John's Wood received not one of the 
wiseacres who meant to initiate "the griffin" "into 



LIFE AND RECITATIONS. 19 

our ways " — on the contrary the lady was determined 
to preserve her American individuality." As for those 
dramatic critics who were also dramatic authors, and 
who " fished '^ to learn if some manuscript in their dus 
tiest portfolio was not preferable to that musty and 
dreary old "Ingomar," they never crossed the thresh- 
old. The consequent wrath in the literary and Bohe- 
mian clubs was palpable, and all these experts in sneer- 
ing prepared beforehand those articles which oftener 
show off the ability of the writer than that of the 
victim discussed. As before said, however, there was 
not one single actress able to vie with the American, 
in many points, especially in youth and comeliness. 

One lady alone was understood to fear her the most, 
for Miss Anderson had thrown down the gauntlet to 
her in the announcement to play a part of which she 
was the original expositor. This little item in the 
programme had irritated all St. James' like an ele- 
phant-fly the ponderous yet sensitive pachederm. 

The critics had pre doomed the stranger, we say, 
from the moment when her characters were found to 
be obselete ones which they had never seen unless in 
their boyhood. This fact alone evinces how they had 
"lost touch" with the people. "Fazio," "the Hunch- 
back," " the Lady of Lyons," and the like, thanks to 
running out of copyright, were only recently emanci- 
pated from excessive charges, so that now the innu- 
merable amateur societies and playbook readers could 
become familiar with them. As a consequence, fifty 
thousand young people were eager to see them played 
and the pivot-role made visible and sympathetically 
sentient. And the young artists who had devoured 
Miss Anderson's portraits were as wistful as that band 



20 THE QUE EN OF THE DRAMA'S 

of first-nighters, ravenous liegemen of the drama, who 
scored the first Saturday in December as a sight not 
to be missed. Moreover, Mr. Irving had besought 
in his farewell speech before departure to America, 
u the heartiest English welcome to the lady whose 
beauty and talent had made her a favorite from Cali- 
fornia to Maine," and the Irvingites were in fidelity 
bound to muster in force. Think, too, of "the Amer- 
ican colony," gratified with American this and Ameri- 
can that throughout the center of civilization : Edison 
lights on the Viaduct, Westinghouse brakes to the 
Pullman cars on all rails running to the great city, 
Keinhart's drawings centrally in the Graphics win- 
dow; American salmon on the breakfast table, Ameri- 
ican beef bringinga Jbetter price than the home- 
grown, American biscuits at tea, and American pre- 
serves topping dinner ! 

Altogether, truly, a very remarkable audience in the 
temple of to-day's dramatic favorite of fortune. 

It may be interesting to analyze this very remarka- 
ble audience : of the gallery and pit components men- 
tion has been made — in the boxes and stalls were no- 
blemen, officers of the Queen's body guard, Members 
of Parliament, law and even clerical magnates— al- 
though to all these the attractions of moor and moun- 
tain and ocean were forgone), authors, critics, Miss 
Kate Terry, half out of her box to gesticulate to 
friends, Horace Lingard, P. T. Barnum, (fresh from 
another inspection of the Crystal Palace, counterpart 
of the Alexandra, sighing to embrace the e-nor-mous 
"World's Show), Bronson Howard (with the disposition 
in London of " Young Mrs. Winthrop " on the brain), 
Miss Emily Faithful, Miss Braddon, Joseph Hatton, 



LIFE AND RE 01 TA TIONS. 21 

James Mortimer, (the Franco-American Journalist who 
has not quite yet won London to stomach a "live" 
journal,) the veteran tragedian Creswick, Genevieve 
Ward, Mrs. Raymond (recovered from Roman fever 
and looking as beautiful as that Dusseldorf portrait of 
hers inseparable as Fanny Bombance's in " Tricoche"), 
Far j eon (as Australia's representative,) Lord Gar- 
moyle and Miss Fortescue in a "celebrated case," 
and over all the countless bouquets' odor, that of the 
immense basket of lilies to be offered from the Jersey 
Lily to the Magnolia. 

When this vast audience had quieted down from a 
babble as unprecedently noisy as that of a New Orleans 
carnival ball when the music suddenly pauses, all was 
expectation for the heroine of the "as bad a play is 
was ever written" (Truth.) 

Miss Anderson's reception was tremendous. The 
first impression was delightful (Referee.) " No criti- 
cism (said Mr. Sala in the Illustrated London JVeios) 
will bar the fact that there is no more beautiful woman 
on the stage, she is fully as highly favored as Mr. 
Rousby, but carries herself with greater dignity, 
and her movements are more symmetrical." Society 
asserted that " only classical times had got so classical 
a face," though adding its wonder that "in the young- 
est of nations the old type should be revived." 

Mr. Sala said the voice was singularly rich, melodi- 
ous, powerful, flexible and resonant, the voice of trag- 
edy, whilst the Referee, more particular states : " The 
voice, has at moments a strong accent, sounded strange 
at first to our English ears, and in the earlier scenes 
the actress had not caught the pitch of the theatre, 
and spoke too low — a fault brought into notice in a 



22 THE QUEEN OF THE DRAMA. 

not unkindly fashion by an outspoken critic in the top 
gallery, whose suggestion she instantly adopted. There 
is a kind of music in it all the same, and the tendency 
to over-accentuate the "r's," and over-emphasise the 
first syllable of such words as "pro-file" and Par-thenia" 
can be easily conquered." 

The criticisms are full of interest, and the ones of 
importance are appended : Era (the organ of theatri- 
cals, nicknamed therefore "the Actors' Bible"): — It 
was "a gratifying success" of "a great actress come 
among us" and "a more beautiful or more perfect im- 
personation of Parthenia it is not possible to conceive." 

Athceneum (the leading literary organ) : — "An ex- 
cellent and ideal interpretation of Parthenia by an ac- 
tress of intellect and mark, with a method incomplete 
as yet but of distinct value." 

Academy: — "Miss Anderson, a new and potent 
stage attraction, has conquered and fascinated, and a 
success won in such a dull piece as " Ingomar " may 
count for almost as much as a triumph won elsewhere. 
It is an agreeable foretaste of what this delightful ac- 
tress may accomplish in a character more obviously 
worthy than grace above beauty." 

Vanity Fair (the chief aristocratic organ): — "Al- 
though icily faultless, there are possibilities of pas- 
sion in her not yet given utterance to." 

Whitehall Review : — " The unqualified success of a 
true artist." 

The World (Edmund Yates' paper): — "Quite the 
most complete and charming actress America has ever 
given England (and yet Mr. Yates may have seen Mrs. 
Anna Cora Mowatt) — a mistress of her art. In grace- 
ful motion many an English artiste might learn a les- 
son in deportment with advantage." 



LIFE AND REGIT A TIONS. 23 

Truth (Mr. Labouchere's paper): — "In her love 
scenes her comedy is unforced and her sentiment has 
none of that wearisome gush with which we are so of- 
ten bored, whilst on the few occasions to display force 
it was manifested without effort, exaggeration or rant." 

Queen (the fashionable ladies' journal) : — " The most 
finished and accomplished actress the transatlantic 
stage has submitted to our judgment; totally free 
from affectation." 

JBailys Magazine (circulating among the nobility 
and richer gentry): — "A more delightful Parthenia 
has never been seen. It is no small proof of talent 
that she changed Ingomar into the 'second fiddle.' 
The cold and indifferent audience of the first scene, 
became warmly enthusiastic in the second, till she 
conquered us as well as the rough barbarian." 

Society: — "Nothing short of genius could surely 
overcome, in an era conspicuous for cynicism and 
irreverence, in an old-fashioned, ultra romantic play, 
remarkable for stilted diction and sentimental situa- 
tions. The amount of comedy infused was quite, un- 
usual and contributed in no small measure to com- 
plete success." 

Graphic (artistic) : — "Altogether entitled her to a 
place in the foremost rank of our English actresses." 

Illustrated London J¥eios(G.A. Sala): — "An actress 
of the very highest capacity, but as yet I fail to dis- 
cern genius in her acting." 

Morning Post (known as "Jeames," after Thacke- 
ray's footman, from being the chronicler of the upper 
class's movements and opinions): — "Not genius, but 
talent; beautiful, winsome, gifted, accomplished." 

Daily JVetos : (Moy Thomas, critic) : " Altogether 



24 THE QUEEN OF THE DRAMA'S 

Miss Anderson has every grounds of satisfaction with 
her present surroundings." 

Pall Mall Gazette : — " A brilliant success of a dan- 
gerous and difficult experiment. The triumph of the 
actress involves the vindication of a play long held up 
to ridicule as a specimen of fustian. The whole is 
well thought out, is perfect in beauty, and rises at 
parts into intensity all but tragic, of admirably played 
scenes." 

Standard (conservative): — "A complete success. 
A real power of delineating passion was exhibited and 
in the scene where Parthenia repulses the advances of 
her too venturesome admirer and in this direction, to 
our mind, the best efforts of the lady tend. As in the 
case of Salvini, in fact with any actor of the highest 
rank, there is always a reserve of power." 

Sunday Times: — "Intensely syinpathique, she did 
not disappoint expectation,and she has almost without 
an effort already made her mark on the English stage, 
and received a welcome not only deserved, but worthy 
of those who speak a common language and have so 
many tastes and sympathies in common." 

Referee-. — "She came, was seen, and conquered." 

We give the above in profusion, for it must be grati- 
fying to perceive that we were not deluded into un- 
founded eulogy of our fellow-countrywoman. 

The story of this memorable night is that her ap- 
pearance was the signal for a tremendous outburst of 
applause which almost unnerved her, for she is always 
a victim of stage fright. (So much so that, at her first 
essay of boys parts in "Ion," like that of Madame 
Nilsson at Cherubino, her limbs smote one another 
with tremor, and the transient impression was that she 



LIFE AND RECITATIONS. 25 

was not strong ! ) the first scene went by in oppressive 
silence, for the audience was studying for an opinion. 
In the third act, grace and tenderness lighted up by 
genuine flashes of power elicted an outburst of spon- 
taneous applause which rose far above mere demons- 
trations of friendliness, and her position was estab- 
lished. In the episode where Parthenia assumes the 
helm and takes the spear, striking the attitude of Pal- 
las, Bellona, Venus with the weapons of Mars, or any 
other classical image that corresponds, the resemb- 
lance to La Bell Stewart as Britannia on the current 
coin caused the gods and pitites to deem it a compli- 
ment to the British Lion, and he roared with all his 
might and main. 

It is to be clearly understood that most of this eu- 
logy was wrung from the critics. In private, they 
carped, all the more fretfully, as spite of their under- 
mining, the people of all classes, many not usually at- 
tenders to histrionic sights, gravitated as by the in- 
stinct of a diamond finder, to the Lyceum. 

Miss Anderson was becoming the rage and the end- 
less file of carriages at the Lyceum galled the hostile 
"newspaper-men" as they went along to Printing- 
house Avenue. " It is equally certain that she owes 
this position in a very slight degree to published ac- 
counts of her acting," confessed a paper of the 15th 
Dec, 1883. " From the first she has been received, 
with only a few exceptions, only in a coldly critical 
spirit ; and yet her reputation has gone on gathering 
in strength till the house is crowded nightly. There 
is no possible explanation except that her acting af- 
fords pleasure in a high degree." The solid test, the 
solid fact that the new attraction drew more money 



26 TUB QUEEN OF THE DBAMA'S 

in a given time than ever before was drawn to Mr. Li- 
ving's theatre {Referee). The agitation was increased 
when a change of the bill to " the Lady of Lyons " 
was announced. 

Her Second Character. 

Though some of the detractors were resolved to re- 
main unconverted by Miss Anderson's "Pauline" it 
brought over several from the enemy's camp. It is 
true Lord Lytton's perennial play was abused as unin- 
teresting ( World), superficial in sentiment and tricky 
in poesy {Daily Telegraph), of which every playgoer 
is well tired {Bailey s Magazine) ; nevertheless, it al- 
ways fills a house with reasonably competent perform- 
ers, and in truth "the very backbone" monetarily of 
the English Dramatic Authors' Society, for which we 
have the manager, playright, and actor Henry J. By- 
ron's word. Hence the irritation of spouting drama- 
tists at Alcibiades Bulwer persisting in never-dying. 

Miss Cavendish was too unfeeling, Miss Ellen Terry 
too weak as Pauline, and there was a confident fore- 
boding that the new one would eclipse them all in the 
proud and romantic belle of Lyons. 

Prominent in the assemblage, as numerous and bril- 
liant as ever was seen, of all noble, lovely, artistic and 
literary London, Lady Burdett-Coutts was visible, the 
head of charitable wealth, and the Princess of Wales 
(whose immaculate reputation stamps the actress whom 
she applauds, as one of the morally elect). The con- 
temned old-fashioned play was listened to with breath- 
less attention, save when tumultuous applause inter- 
rupted and the pit called as on a Kean or Siddons 
night for "three cheers more" at the close an event 



LIFE AND RECITATIONS. 27 

unknown to the writer's twenty years experience of 
the London stage and tasking the everlasting Charles 
Hervey's recollection itself. 

The critiques show the stunning impression of that 
pronounced enthusiasm. The physical charm was 
granted as at the first: "In the poetry of motion, she 
certainly equals, perhaps surpasses any living actress 
(Life)." — "A quality of girlishness about it that makes 
it totally distinct from any Pauline I have seen ( Vanity 
Fair.)" "It will undeniably strengthen the hold al- 
ready secured on the admiration of English playgoers 
(Era)." "A captivating performance, and a new- 
comer has to be welcomed as an actress of high mark. 
She is an almost ideal representative of the tenderest 
Shaksperian conceptions (Athameum)." "In it every- 
thing to admire. It is difficult to see how the heroine 
could have been more skilfully represented, and to sug- 
gest any improvement that rare and intelligent fore- 
thought could bring, or to point out any error of judg- 
ment (Standard)." — "A singularly fine, picturesque 
tender and impassioned performance. In grace and 
beauty, it comes scarcely if at all behind her Parthenia 
while it reveals the possession of a totally different 
range of talents. Her art is broader than was first 
surmised. The triumph belonged wholly to Miss An- 
derson — a triumph more undisputed and more honor- 
able has seldom been chronicled" (Pall Mall Gazette). 
— " Every movement was effective from not being done 
for effect ( World). 

The Claude of the evening had rather threatened to 
shout her down, being of the robust school, but that, 
perhaps, had its advantage of keeping the actress's 
voice up to the level and proving that it was one " ca- 



28 THE qUEKN OF THE DRAMA'S 

pafcle of both light and grave expression ; sarcasm and 
fierce scorn, full of power and serenity {Graphic.) 

This time, the debutante could not plead nervous- 
ness. There was much amusement when a glance 
was given to the royal box at the line " Princes are 
so changeful," which elicited a smile from the wife of 
Albert Edward, and that exalted dame crowned the 
delightfully successful Pauline by sending round for 
the American lady to visit her in the box. As* the act- 
ress never sees any one unconnected with the play dur- 
ing its progress, that was impossible. Since Mr. J. S. 
Clarke gave the Prince of Wales a lesson in the duty 
of all public characters towards the public, by having 
the Strand Theatre curtain rung up at the appointed 
hour, although the expected guest was leisurely arriv- 
ing, never was a lofty personage so amazed. Neverthe- 
less, the good sense of her Highness seconded her kind 
nature, and she dallied over her enrobing at the de- 
parture so that Miss Anderson could come round and 
receive her bouquet as a testimonial of her gratification. 
The future queen's favor is everything to the English, 
and during the week when the incident was reported, 
the newspaper writers reflected. As for her being the 
idol of the play going public, that might not affect 
them. "Critics are sometimes wrong; the public nev- 
er," is a passable maxim, but critics never acknowledge 
their failures, like Brummel's valet. However, some- 
thing had to be done, for, already, the tone of discus- 
sion had become deeper, and the casual reader himself 
met such striking contradictions as " with a single flash 
of real emotion, Miss Anderson would be perfect." 
(Queen), "artistic but not wholly natural" ( Whitehall 
lieview), and "a good actress'' (Daily Telegraph), 



LIFJS AND RECITATIONS. 29 

contrasting with "an adept at depicting passion 
( World)" and "with the power to move deeply shown 
in more than one very fine outburst ' ; (Daily JVeics). 

A trap was devised for this irresistible intruder, 
" destined to take the very highest rank" (Graphic). 
That snare was to induce the stranger, if possible, to 
attempt such exacting character as Lady Macbeth, for 
example. One averred that she is fitted for more he- 
roic creations than that of Pauline, another that " in 
the direction of high tragedy, her real genius may found," 
and that "the actress has been moulded for sterner 
work than in the outwardly ever- varying Pauline, who 
invariably never varies at all." If, instead of eclipsing 
contemporary actresses in the parts they fondly hugged 
as their own, Miss Anderson had been thus misled, and 
though she had succeeded in some arduous character 
far and away above their abilities, these would have 
been tranquil as, had she fallen short of the popular 
standard, they would have been gleeful. 

Therefore, there was gnashing of teeth, more or less 
false, when, instead of Lady Macbeth, Brutus's wife, 
Cleopatra, or even Juliet, the modern and not "strong" 
Galatea was announced for 

The Third Impersonation. 

Our actress was known throughout London after 
Sept. 1st (Parthenia) and throughout England after 
^Nov. 27 th (Pauline), and the much derided " worn and 
faded repertory " had ift no wise abated that public 
curiosity which crammed the Lyceum to the back and 
ceiling, a furore " not to be set down to fashion or cap- 
rice " (News), adopting the exceptional actress new in 
her style, marvellous gifted by nature and cultivated 



30 THE QUEEN OF THE D11AMA\< 

to the very limit of art " {Society.) Cultivated ! mark 
that ye false Americans who repeat that no good can 
come out of Nazareth. 

Expectation was piqued by rumors that some inim- 
ical influence was busy with Mi*. Gilbert to induce him 
to withhold his mythological comedy from "that 
Yankee girl." Whatever the hindrance, the American 
admirers of the talented author of the " Pinafore " may 
be sure that Mr. Gilbert was not to blame. A little 
soured by hardship at a period of life when his quite 
evident powers should have been fostered and not ex- 
ploited ruthlessly*, Mr. Gilbert has a brusqueness of 
manner which does his real temperament injustice, but 
he is utterly incapable of unfairness, consequently 
"Pygmalion and Galatea" was re-introduced under 
his superintendence. 

As for his "revengeful schemes (resentful?)" to 
come out even because he had never been paid for the 
piece in America, why he is a lawyer and, therefore, 
perfectly well knows that he has not the shadow of a 
claim to a dollar there for playing rights. The piece 
is derisely accounted " clumsy and silly and farcial " 
and the sweetest and most interesting of Mr. Gibert's 
strange conceptions. There was one thing accepted 
beforehand, that this most delicate character would be 
beautifully embodied as never before ( Vanity Fair), 
and necessarily, the original impersonator, Mrs. Ken- 
dal, however good in making the statue transform it- 
self into a contemporary English woman would be 

*For weeks when the proprietor of a comic weekly under liis 
charge paid nobody, Mr. Gilbert toiled loyally for its subscrib- 
ers, not only writing every line but drawing every picture from 
the initial to the tailpiece, including the full page cartoon. 
The writer has handled the copy. 



LIFE AND RECITATIONS. 31 

relegated to the base of the pedestal if not expunged 
from the niche where the Greek image is revealed. 

One critic (G. A. Sala,) frankly observed that, having 
praised Mrs. Kendal as the best Galatea, he 'would not 
eat his words ! but the other ancient and valiant Pistols 
masticated their leeks with tolerable gusto. For our- 
selves, we think Madame Marie Cabel in Masse's opera, 
was a finer and more antique statue humanized than 
any seen before Miss Anderson's, and the French prima 
donna's exposition of the thrill of life and the sensations 
of vinous effects surpassed even that of the dansense 
Madame Dos (in "Babil and Bijou"). 

Of the two readings, the marble to remain an un- 
earthly being when animated, or to become utterly a 
guileless but feeling woman, Miss Anderson chose to 
the higher one — " the true one, cool and calm." 
{Truth.) 

When the screen glided aloof, the ravished audience 
was spellbound before " a living statue of really super 
natural loveliness, expectations being fully realised." 
{Referee.) 

All the lighter touches were relished, the innocent 
gladness, the never undue archness, and the absence 
of posing for sheer effect. 

Some of the purblind actually insisted that this 
" most faultless of Grecian statues" was a dummy 
— moulded by Alma-Tadema, although the clearer eye 
discerned the acceleration of the breathing-pace at the 
shout of joyful approbation. Then, because the An- 
glo-French artist named went round to the stage to 
suggest some trivial alteration of the costume, cavil- 
lers hastened to attribute the design to him, though it 



32 TILE QUEEN OF THE DRAMA'S 

is the work of Mr. Frank Millet of the city of New 
York.* 

This time, there were less fault-finders. Mr. Gil- 
bert " trimmed " sagely by pronouncing that this best 
impersonation to then was "artistically more beauti- 
ful but dramatically less effective than Mrs. Kendal's." 
The Times rated this new Galatea "ideally beautiful 
and a totally complete embodiment ; the finest tableau 
vivant the stage has ever seen " to " the unbounded 
admiration of the house." Truth called it an interest- 
ing and original rendering. (Mrs. Labouchere, at the 
elbow of her husband thus reviewing, ought to be a 
judge of statuesque players as she once made up for 
the popular "Clytie" in a play of that title.) Miss 
Anderson has proved that grace maj^ be nature, and 
that finished art is the highest form of grace. A legi- 
timate triumph. 

*Miss Lemon, daughter of Charles Dickens' early boon-com- 
panion and editor of "Punch," wrote these verses to Roekel's 
melody 

GALATEA. 

Alone the worker stood and gazed upon that face, 
Where all the grace of maidenhood had found a resting-place ; 
His heart was moved to tears, his soul was moved to pray 
"Give me the love of her living heart to crown my life alway." 

Across the noontide light a gentle whisper came, 
With voice half hushed by tears he heard her breathe his name. 
He knew the prayer was heard before the love-queen's throne: 
" Thought of my thought, soul of my soul, she lives for my 
love alone ! " 

Across the after years he listens all in vain 

To hear the one loved voice speak to his heart again ; 

Only a memory lives of all the past could tell, 

For all his hope and all his love lie in one word — "Farewell!" 



LIFE AND RE CI TA TI0N8. 33 

" Rarely, indeed (says the JVeios) can an attempt to 
satisfy by actual bodily presentment the ideal of a po- 
etic legend have approached so nearly to absolute per- 
fection ;" adding that her acting, "like all acting that 
is good, is highly artificial ; but if justifiably stigma- 
tised as artificial, it is devoutly to be wished that such 
artificiality were more commonly to be met upon our 
stage. The frank joyousness of 'I am glad I am 
a woman ! ' went to the heart." 

Though, then, "the critics are always opposed to new 
and natural readings (in the words of Chorley, head of 
the London critics himself at one time), the Observer 
concluded that a sculptured figure suddenly endowed 
with life would comport itself after the fashion of Miss 
Anderson," the Academy that the interpretation of the 
feelings of a woman not developed and with the cold- 
ness of marble still clinging, is very likely original and 
no doubt justified, and the Graphic that "it is difficult 
to imagine how the realization could be more perfect." 

Up to the wierd farewell in a tone of rich, subdued 
pathos, there had been "nothing to blame and very 
much to praise " {Standard). 

The aristocratic Post, alluding to the Lyceum mag- 
net as "the fashion," acknowledged that she must be 
clever as well as fortunate to have attained this result 
in so short a time. To cap the climax, the court sculp- 
tor, Count Gleichen, executed the lady's bust. 

Unable to believe that, in competition with native 
talent, the invader could be defeated, for already her 
promised Juliet was anticipated as a sure success, a 
social entanglement was invented to which the public 
remained totally indifferent. When the Duke of Al- 
bany's funeral took place, there was no closing order 



34 THE QUEEN OF THE DRAMA. 

issued to theatrical managers (who are licensed by the 
Lord Chamberlain though there is no knowing that he 
dare cancel the document and throw out a thousand 
employees on a mere matter of court etiquette), but 
several houses did make holiday. The Lyceum man- 
agement, however, was cunningly prompted, advantage 
being taken of ignorance of London " flunkeyism," not 
only to go on as usual but publish a kind of democratic 
appeal to the people that there was no desire to disap- 
point them. Better advised by sojourners who under- 
stood the attempt to injure the actress in the higher 
circles, who are nothing if not loyal, the performance 
was put off and Windsor Castle remained unshaken. 

Whilst the Shakesperian novelty was in preparation 
Mr. Gilbert's one act costume comedy was brought out 
on Jan. 26 th, 1884. Meanwhile the year closed grati- 
fying, honorably, profitably. The "quiet" Anderson 
equipage, with driver and man in dark brown and dead 
silver buttons, was the very opposite in taste to the 
circus-like equipage in which one whom the Londoners 
once took for an "American actress" (Adah Isaacs 
Menken), used to parade herself in the fashionable 
West End. The Lyceum company were lavishly re- 
membered at Christmas and, in responsive good feeling, 
they presented their principal with a brooch in dia- 
monds, ever conspicious among her stage keepsakes. 
There was also a feast to some hundred hungry chil- 
dren given by the lady in the notorious Seven Dials, 
all now that the New York Five Points used to be. 
By the end of the seven months engagement, nearly 
$ 500,000 was to pass through the Lyceum treasury ! 
Morever, to say nothing of a myriad copies of Ameri- 
can photographs, some thirty thousand, were disposed 



LIFE AND REGIT A TI0N8. 35 

of by Vanderweyde (the American artist who has taken 
the place of Sarony in the British capital), in whose 
studio was also shown the curious carbon photograph 
8x3 feet, which is larger, we believe, than even those 
life-sized ones of Parisian favorites to which M. Naclar 
so proudly called our attention a short time since. 

Nevertheless, there was one drop of gall in the 
beaker of honey ; still some grumblers, in this Land 
where Grumbler is King, repeated: " She has come as 
a beauty, she has shown herself as living statuary, she 
has colored herself with evanescent passion so as to be 
a painting of Pauline ; now let us see her alive in 
drama." 

Accordingly, she returned after the holidays to be 
no longer the picture, but the artiste in 

" Comedy and Tragedy." 

A one-act piece written expressly by the now enthus- 
iastic Gilbert to reveal the powers of moving all hearts. 

The Fourth Phase. 

This " show " play had been bandied about for a doz- 
en years : written for Kate Terry, she was rather in 
the toils of Tom Taylor who composed nearly every 
original play she appeared in, being part proprietor of 
the theatre where she was longest engaged, it was off- 
ered afterwards to her sister Ellen, who shirked the 
arduous task, and to Miss Litton, also prudently de- 
clining. The actress's powers are supremely called 
upon in the culmination where the heroine, reciting 
for the amusement of some court fops, suddenly be- 
lieves that her beloved husband is being killed in a 



86 THE QUEEN OF THE DRAMA'S 

duel. She refused to wear powder, and her own brown 
hair was puffed up in a reasonable imitation of the head- 
dress of the Regency. Her costume was neither stiff 
nor voluminous enough for correctness, but, compen- 
sation enough to the ladies' eyes, it was deluged with 
rivers of diamonds. The first thrill was given when 
her lower tones deeply thundered the rebuke on the 
status of actors before the Revolution : 

"What are we actresses'?" " Bodies we have, God 
help us ; souls, we have none. Banned by the church, 
shunned by the pure, buried like dogs." 

In the scene of entanglement with the Prince Regent, 
to be detained by pretended endearments until the 
avenging husband arrives, the revealation of a new 
phase in the siren's abilities surprised all spectators. 
But, (as Mr. Yates wrote to a New York paper) "As- 
tonishment gave way to admiration in the great scene 
of the play. The husband and Regent are fighting in 
a moonlight glade. Clarice diverts her guests atten- 
tion by enacting the part of a strolling player who has 
been all things in his time. She is a miser, gloating 
over his wealth ; she is a lover, singing to his lute ; she 
is a gallant, dancing a fandango. She is everything 
by turns, and played all parts with a skill so consum- 
mate that the theatre rang with thunders of applause. 
In the final scene, where she implores her guests to 
save her husband's life and they still believe she is ac- 
ting a part*, she never falls into an excess of vehemence, 
never sins by exaggeration ; and at the end of the play, 
folded in her husband's arms, she gives a long, ominous 
glance toward the glade where the Regent lies dying: 
with that glance admirably closes the drama. Indeed, 
there is not a blemish in this remarkable performance." 



LIFE AND REGIT A TIONS. 37 

The Athwneum: "her performance is remarkable for 
power as for beauty, and holds forth promise of higher 
things in store. It was to her warmest admirers a 
a surprise." Queen, termed it "a superb display of 
histrionic skill while she was really acting mimic parts 
to her audience on the stage." 

The Referee asserted that the arch and mischievous 
tone adopted in the comedy lines has never been sur- 
passed. 

And the Academy thinks "Miss Anderson shows 
more real power in the comedy line than in Mr. Gil- 
bert's mythological play, and asserts that she adds 
to the possession of charm much experience and ser- 
viceable tact." 

Granted, at last that by her talent, as by her beau- 
ty, and faultless private life, she was worthy to repre- 
sent the great country that gave her birth, Miss An- 
derson could, without misgivings as to the confounded 
if not crushed enemies behind, go on a triumphal 

Tour of Great Britain. 

The progress made the starlight fall on smoky Bir- 
mingham, bustling Glasgow, stern Edinboro' and noi- 
sy Manchester. The prices were those which had dis- 
tinguished her town season, and achieved a similarly 
brilliant success. Only once did she disappoint an 
always eager audience, and that was at Glasgow, 
where the Scotch mist had given her a cold. They 
were very much astonished in the Northern Capital by 
her conscientiousness in having a scene of " Ingomar " 
gone over several time^ till it went smoothly. In 
June the St. Pancras railway station was mobbed by 
her welcome-makers, whose only chance was to see her 
on the way to study Juliet in Verona itself. 



38 THE QUEEN OF THK DRAMA'S 

'* Romeo and Juliet." 

When Charlotte Cushman, well informed on the 
machinations of rival tragediennes to prevent her ob- 
taining even one hearing in London, told a manager 
that she would stay till she overcame those enemies, 
the echo of her vigorous menace fluttered the foe con- 
siderably. The gradual strengthening of Miss Ander- 
son's popularity silenced nearly all opposition, and, 
unless she were tried by some hypercritical guage, no 
one in the overflowing audience at the Lyceum, Nov. 
1st, 188-4, doubted that the new Juliet would occupy 
no lower a niche in Fame's temple that Adelina Patti, 
and a higher one than Neil son, Terry, Cavendish, 
Wallis and the flock comprehensively styled, from their 
teacher, "Ryder's pupils." 

" It gave complete satisfaction to her admirers (says 
the Dispatch), this personation of a more trying and 
poetical character than any she has previously attempt- 
ed here." The begrudgeful Daily Telegraph owns 
that " technically speaking a more powerful bit of act- 
ing the modern stage has not seen from an English 
speaking actress ! " And what in the name of insatia- 
ble Thersites, can one demand further. It is useless 
to add more of the euloge abounding in the London 
papers ; the audience cheered with a kind of grateful- 
ness at having them for their representatives the Royal 
party (Prince and Princess of Wales and the Princess 
Louise of Lome) who presented their bouquets to our 
best and fairest actress. 

The Correspondents of the American papers flashed 
their plaudits by telegraph, and their unpremeditated 
language gives a faithful expression of the imjDression 
made: 



LIFE AND RECITATIONS. 39 

The long awaited revival of "Romeo and Juliet " with 
Mr. Terriss and Miss Mary Anderson in the title roles 
began Nov. 1st at the Lyceum Theatre. The revival 
was an artistic surprise. The niise en scene was his- 
torically accurate, w T ith no straining after effect. The 
faction fight between the Montagues and Capulets in 
the first act was as w T onderful a realization of a street 
battle in old Verona as ever was displayed on the stage. 
The entrance of the heroine in this act was the signal 
for a tremendous burst of enthusiasm. Mary Anderson 
was never seen to such advantage in London before. 

She wore a dress of pale blue Indian silk, delicately 
figured with silver. The dress was woven all in one 
piece and was just sufficiently tight-fitting to show to 
advantage the lines of the actress's classic figure. It 
had a border of seed pearls and a band of the same 
ornaments over the hips, while from her wrist, in the 
ballroom scene, hung a mask at' the end of a string of 
pearl beads. She wore no jewels, and was content to 
dispense with the ordinary Juliet wig. Her own hair 
was worn flowing over her shoulders and surmounted 
by a tiny skull cap of the same material as the dress. 
Miss Anderson's second costume consisted of a bodice 
and skirt of heavy apricot satin, with a semi-train, all 
embroidered with seed pearls and silver. As in the 
first act, she wore no jewels, but this time her hair was 
adorned with violets and primroses. 

In the action of the piece there were many inno- 
vations and departures from London stage traditions. 

The house was crowded. The audience included 
scores of critics and hundred notabilities in social and 
official life. Among them was Mr. Lowell. There were 
also many other Americans present. The applause 



U) THE QUE EN OF THE DRAMA'S 

throughout the evening was liberal and appreciative. 
In the balcony scene the full depth of the stage was 
used and the setting superb. Miss Anderson was much 
applauded and twice called before the curtain. The 
potion scene was finely done, and at the end of the play 
Miss Anderson was called for with a degree of fervor 
that admitted of no refusal. She was led before the 
curtain. The applause at her appearance was tumult- 
ous and so prolonged that Miss Anderson retired in 
tears and blushes, and the orchestra had to play "Home, 
Sweet Home " to the full strength of their instruments 
to get the people out of the house. 

The general opinion is that Miss Anderson's Juliet 
is a scholarly and artistic study. She introduced much 
new business, but it has all been conscientiously con- 
sidered and appears warranted by the text. She seems 
to rely chiefly upon facial expression for t the portrayal 
of passion or love. 

Miss Mary Anderson's Juliet (says the correspondent 
of the JV. Y. Herald) seems to have rivalled Mr. Wil- 
son Barrett's Hamlet. It captured a London audience 
at Mr. Irving's theatre. There is some oddity in this 
foreign appreciation of an actress less heartly recog- 
nized in her own country. Miss Anderson was always 
a handsome woman, and showed unmistakable signs of 
a nascent talent. Yet she was never petted here as she 
is petted in England. This is not uncommon on the 
stage. Many French actresses go abroad to acquire 
their fame. Deslee won her laurels in Belgium after 
Paris had left her in neglect. Pasca made her greatest 
reputation in Russia. Actors like Pechter, highly es- 
teemed both here and in London, have been very light- 



LIFE AND RECITA TIONS. 41 

ly considered in France. There is a distinct utility, 
however, in this verdict of foreigners. It enables us 
to reconsider our own. So Miss Anderson, we suppose, 
will come back to us with quite a regal triumph. 



Everybody went to see Miss Mary Anderson's first 
night of "Romeo and Juliet." All Mr. Irving's friends 
were there, Mr. Herrmann representing his rival of the 
Princess's Theatre. His Excellency Minister Lowell, 
Mrs. Lowell, and Mr. Smalley, of the T'ribune, occupied 
a box. Mr. McHenry, the Financist, and some friends 
were in the next one. George H. Boughton, the Ameri- 
can artist, Mrs. Boughton, Mr. Abbey, of Harper s, 
Sala, Mr. and Mrs. Labouchere, Mr. Justin McCarthy, 
M. P., Mrs. Lewis and two other sisters of Ellen Terry, 
Mr. and Mrs. Ledger, Mr. Burnand, editor of Punch, 
and Mrs. Burnand, Dr. Morrell Mackenzie, aud all the 
leading critics, were in the stalls. It was a thoroughly 
representative house, great in its expectations, anxious 
to be pleased and willing to see the high traditions of 
the Lyceum management maintained. It is conceded 
in cultured circles that Mary Anderson has been more 
sincere in her respect and veneration for Shakespeare ; 
that she has approached the poet in a more poetic spirit ; 
and that she has not, for a moment, lowered his work 
to the level of mere melodrama. Mary Anderson's 
Juliet was a surprise, even to her admirers. It is a 
great advance on all she has done before. Bright, fresh, 
artless, coquettish in the earlier scenes, it was strong, 
womanly and dramatic at the close. It was never un- 
interesting and it was always conscientious and earnest. 
No handsomer young couple ever beguiled an audi- 
ence of its sympathy than did the Juliet of Miss An- 



42 THE QUEEN OF THE DRAMA. 

derson and the Homeo of Mr. Terris. The bean ideal 
of the Shakesperean picture, they will never be forgot- 
ten in the oral history of the famous balcony scene. 
Tybalt was admirably played by one of Miss Anderson's 
brothers. Mrs. Stirling (the nurse of the Irving rep- 
resentation) gave great satisfaction in all her scenes, 
and Miss Anderson was perhaps at her best in the 
comedy passages with the nurse; though Mrs. Keely 
and Mr. Robert Wyndham (two theatrical authorities) 
say they never saw the potion scene given with such 
true tragic fire as on Saturday night. The scenery was 
superb. If it had a fault it was too lavish; and it 
certainly did not possess that poetic glamor with which 
Irving succeeded in investing his version of the immortal 
story. Nevertheless the scenes were very effective, 
and they evidently afforded a real delight to the more 
popular parts of the house. This latest venture of Mr. 
Abbey and Miss Anderson may honestly be pronounced 
a genuine artistic and money success. 

Miss Mary Anderson has herself personally inves- 
tigated the real and supposed scenes of "Juliet and her 
Romeo." And she kept her eyes wide open for local 
color and suggestive incident, it seems, in Verona. 
"Carados," the bright and incisive gossip of i\\e London 
Referee, informs me that "while inspiration seeking in 
this classic Italian city, she saw a band of barefooted 
ecclesiastics solemnly march through the streets. 
Gibbon you know, saw something of the same kind 
years ago at Rome. " The effect on Miss Anderson 
will be seen when, the play will be produced." Miss 
Anderson superintends the rehearsals with a watchful 
energy that leaves no effect, grouping, or situation an- 



LIFE AND RECITATIONS. 43 

explored. A hundred and eighty supers are daily 
drilled for the fighting and banquet scenes, both of 
which are to be "something very remarkable." It is 
understood that this new mounting of " Borneo and 
Juliet " is not intended for England alone.' Mr. Abbey 
and Miss Anderson have in view for it a great Ameri- 
can tour. 



By the Sad Sea Waves. 

A correspondent of a London paper, gives the fol- 
lowing sketch of Miss Anderson, "at home." 

"A long low room in a rambling country house, its 
wide bay windows commanding the pretty wooded 
scenery of Long Branch. The golden rays pour in 
through the open windows, and fill the room with splen- 
dor. The walls are covered with portraits of eminent 
actors and actresses, living and dead : here and there a 
bust or statuette, a stage dagger on a velvet stand which 
once belonged to Sarah Siddons ; while on chairs and 
sofas are lying editions of Shakespeare, and of the 
works of many another playwright. Seated at an organ 
is a young woman in the bloom of a singular beauty. 
She is dressed in a soft white cashmere robe, whose 
clinging folds display the graceful outlines of her full 
supple form. She wears no ornament, and the sim- 
plicity of her attire is only relieved by the broad sash 
of pale- blue silk which encircles her yielding waist. 
The sunbeams fall upon a face of singular loveliness, 
features exquisitely chiselled, a small finely-shaped head 
carried with a queenly grace and lit up with deep-gray 
eyes full of mingled genius and passion. This head 



44 THE QUE EN OF THE DRAMA'S 

is crowned with a wealth of that seldom-seen hair — 
" Golden in the sunshine, in the shadow brown." Pres- 
ently the lady commences to sing in a sweet, powerful 
contralto voice. She has scarcely uttered a few notes 
when a large English deerhound who has been dozing 
quietly at her feet starts up, and after a long prelimi- 
nary stretch commences a doleful accompaniment. 
She leaves the organ, and administering to Uno a re 
proachful slap, bids him be quiet. The spell is broken. 
In a moment we are in the nineteenth century, at a 
country house at one of America's most fashionable 
watering-places ; and the beautiful young woman be- 
fore us is Mary Anderson, the glory of the American 
stage, and one of the fairest daughters of that fair land. 
This is the home to which she retires now and then 
for a few weeks rest and quiet from the exacting life of 
a successful actress, whose day£ are spent in nomadic 
pursuit of her professor. 

" She introduces you presently to the family circle. 
The introductions are hardly over when Miss Anderson 
insists on taking you to the top of the house, whose 
windows command a fine view of the Atlantic, as it rolls 
majestically on to the shore of Long Branch. Miss 
Anderson points out to you her bathing-place at the 
foot of the park. An expert and adventurous swimmer, 
she will rush down sometimes on a sultry summer's 
night, and plunge, under the bright moonlit sky, into 
angry waters, which one less courageous might well 
fear to breast ; and there in the offing is her pretty 
steam-yacht, in which she often flies seawards, to es- 
cape for a few days 'far from the madding crowd' of 
Long Branch." 



SELECT RECITATIONS, 



EXECUTION OF MARY STUART. 

Barbara. Yea, I see 

Stand in mid-hall the scaffold black as death. 
And black the block upon it all around. 
Against the throng a guard of halberdiers, 
And the axe against the scaffold rail reclined, 
And two men masked on either hand beyond, 
And hard behind the block a cushion set, 
Black, as the chair behind it. 

Mary Beaton. When I saw 

Fallen on a scaffold once a young man's head, 
Such things as these I saw not. Nay, but on : 
I knew not that I spake : and toward your ears 
Indeed I spake not. 

Barbara. All those faces change; 

She comes more royally than ever yet 
Fell foot of man triumphant on this earth, 
Imperial more than empire made her born 
Enthroned as queen sat never. Not a line 
Stirs of her sovereign feature : like a bride 
Brought home she mounts the scaffold ; and her eyes 
Sweep regal round the cirque beneath, and rest, 
Subsiding with a smile. She sits, and they, 
The doomsmen earls, beside her ; at her left 
The sheriff, and the clerk at hand on high, 
To read the warrant. 

Mary Beaton. None stands there but knows 

[45] 



46 QUEEN OF THE THE DRAMA' 8 

What things therein are writ against her: God 
Knows what therein is writ not. God forgive 
All. 

Barbara. Not a face there breathes of all the throng 
Bnt is more moved than hers to hear this read, 
"Whose look alone is changed not. 

Mary Beaton. Once I knew 

A face that changed not in as dire an hour 
More than the queen's face changes. Hath he not 
Ended? 

Barbara. You cannot hear them speak below : 
Come near and hearken : bid not me repeat 
All. 

Mary Beaton. I beseech you — for I may not come. 

Barbara. Now speaks Lord Shrewsbury but a word 
or twain, 
And brienier yet she answers, and stands up 
As though to kneel, and pray. 

Mary Beaton. I too have prayed — 

God hear at last her prayers not less than mine, 

Which, failed not, sure, of hearing. 

********* 

Barbara. And now they lift her veil up from her head. 
Softly and softly draw the black robe off, 
And all in red as of a funeral flame 
She stands up statelier yet before them, tall, 
And clothed as if with sunset ; and she takes 
From Elspeth's hands the crimson sleeves, and draws 
Their covering on her arms, and now those twain 
Burst out aloud in w r eeping ; and she speaks : 
Weep not ; I promised for you. Now she kneels ; 
And Jane binds round a kerchief on her eyes : 
And smiling last her heavenliest smile on earth, 
She waves a blind hand toward them, with Farewell, 
Farewell, to meet again : and they come down 
And leave her praying aloud, In thee, O Lord, 
I put my trust: and now, that psalm being through, 
She lays between the block and her soft neck 
Her long white peerless hands up tenderly, 
Which now the headsman draws again away, 



LIFE AND RECITATIONS. 47 

But softly too : now stir her lips again — 
Into thine hands, Lord, into thine hands, 
Lord, I commend my spirit ; and now — but now. 
Look you, not I, the last upon her. 

Mary Beaton. Ha! 

He strikes awry ; she stirs not. Nay, but now 
He strikes aright, and ends it. 

Barbara. Hark, a cry. 

Voice beloiv. So perish all found enemies of the Queen ! 

Another Voice. Amen. 

Mary Beaton. I heard that very cry go up 

Far off long since to God, who answers here. 

SWINBURNE. 



"BY THE SEA, SEPTEMBER 19, 1881." 

Watchman ! what of the night ? 
The sky is dark, my friend, 
And we in heavy grief await the end. 
A light is burning in a silent room, 
But we — we have no light in all the gloom. 

Watchman ! what of the night ? 
Friend, strong men watch the light 
With the strange mist of tears before their sight, 
And women at each hearthstone sob and pray 
That the great darkness end at last in day. 

Watchman ! how goes the night ? 
Wearily, friend, for him, 

Yet his*heart quails not, though the light burns dim. 
As bravely as he fought the field of life, 
He bears himself in this, the final strife. 

Watchman ! what of the night ? 
Friend, we are left no word 
To tell of all the bitter sorrow stirred 



48 "EE QUEEN OF THE DRAMA'S 

In our sad souls. We stand and rail at fate 
Who leaves hands empty and hearts desolate. 

"Are pure, great souls so many in the land 
That we should lose the chosen of the band ? " 
We cry ! But he who suffers lies, 
Meeting sharp-weaponed pain with steadfast eyes 

And makes no plaint while on the threshold death 
Half draws his keen sword from its glittering sheath 
And looking inward pauses — lingering long, 
Faltering — himself the weak before the strong. 

Watchman ! how goes the night ? 
In tears, my friend, and praise 
Of his high truth and generous, trusting ways ; 
Of his warm love and buoyant hope and faith 
Which passed life's fires free from all blight or scathe. 
Strange ! we forget the laurel wreath we gave, 
And only love him, standing near his grave. 

Watchman ! what of the night ? 
Friend, when it is past, 
We wonder what our grief can bring at last, 
To lay upon his broad, true, tender breast, 
What flower whose sweetness shall outlast the rest, 
And this we set from all the bloom apart ; 
" He woke new love and faith in every heart." 

Watchman ! what of the night? 
Would God that it were gone 
And we might see once more the rising dawn I 
The darkness deeper grows — the light burns low, 
There sweeps o'er land and sea a cry of woe ! 

Watchman! What now! What now! 
Hush, friend — we may not say, 
Only that — all the pain has passed away. 

MRS. FRANCES HODGSON BURNETT. 



LIFE AND MECITATIONS. 49 



THE BALCONY SCENE. 

ROMEO AND JULIET Act II.— Scene 2. 

Romeo. He jests at scars that never felt a wound. 
{Juliet appears above at a window. 
But, soft ! what light through yonder window breaks ? 
It is the east, and Juliet is the sun. 
See, how she leans her cheek upon her hand ! 
O, that I were a glove upon that hand, 
That I might touch that cheek! 

Juliet. Ay me! 

Bom. She speaks ; 

O, speak again, bright angel! for thou art 
As glorious to this night, being o'er my head, 
As is a winged messenger of heaven 
Unto the white upturned wondering eyes 
Of mortals that fall back to gaze on him 
When he bestrides the lazy-pacing clouds 
And sails upon the bosom of the air. 

Jul. O Eomeo, Romeo! wherefore art thou Romeo? 
Deny thy father and refuse thy name ; 
Or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love, 
And I'll no longer be a Capulet. 

Bom. \_Aside~] Shall I hear more, or shall I speak 
at this? 

Jul. 'Tis but thy name that is my enemy; 
Thou art thyself, though not a Montague. 
What's Montague? it is nor hand nor foot, 
Nor arm, nor face, nor any other part 



50 THE QUEEN OF THE DRAMA'S 

Belonging to a man. 0, be some other name ! 
What's in a name ? that which we call a rose 
By any other name would smell as sweet ; 
So Romeo would, were he not Romeo cail'd, 
Retain that dear perfection which he owes 
Without that title, Romeo, doff thy name, 
And for that name which is no part of thee 
Take all myself. 

Rom. I take thee at thy word : 

Call me but love, and I'll be new baptized ; 
Henceforth I never will be Romeo. [night, 

Jul. What man art thou that thus bescreen'd in 
So stumblest on my counsel ? 

Rom. By a name 

I know not how to tell thee who I am : 
My name, dear saint, is hateful to myself, 
Because it is an enemy to thee ; 
Had I it written, I would tear the word. 

Jul. My ears have not yet drunk a hundred words 
Of that tongue's utterance, yet I know the sound: 
Art thou not Romeo and a Montague? 

Rom. Neither, fair saint, if either thee dislike. 

Jul. How earnest thou hither, tell me, and wherefore? 
The orchard walls are high and hard to climb, 
And the place death, considering who thou art, 
If any of my kinsmen find thee here. [walls. 

Rom. With love's light wings did I o'er perch these 
For stony limits cannot hold love out, 
And what love can do that dares love attempt ; 
Therefore thy kinsmen are no let to me. 

Jul. If they do see thee, they will murder thee. 

Rom. Alack, there lies more peril in thine eye 
Than twenty of their swords : look thou but sweet, 
And I am proof against their enmity. 

Jul. I would not for the world they saw thee here. 

Rom. I have night's cloak to hide me from their 
sight ; 
And but thou love me, let them find me here : 
My life were better ended by their hate. 
Than death prorogued, wanting of thy love. 



LIFE AND RECITATIONS. 51 

Jul. By who's direction found'st thou out this place ? 

Bom. By ]ove, who first did prompt me to inquire • 
He lent me counsel and I lent him eyes. 
I am no pilot ; yet, wert thou as far 
As that vast shore wash'd with the farthest sea, 
I would adventure for such merchandise. 

Jul. Thou know'st the mask of night is on my face, 
Else would a maiden blush bepaint my cheek 
For that which thou has heard me speak to night. 
Fain would I dwell on form, fain, fain deny 
What I have spoke : but farewell compliment ! 
Dost thou love me? I know thou wilt say "Ay," 
And I will take thy word: yet, if thou swear'st, 
Thou mayst prove false ; at lovers' perjuries, 
They say, Jove laughs. O gentle Eomeo, 
If thou dost love, pronounce it faithfully : 
Or if thou think' st I am too quickly won, 
I'll frown and be perverse and say thee nay, 
So thou wilt woo ; but else, not for the world. 
In truth, fair Montague, I am too fond, 
And therefore thou mayst think my 'haviour light: 
But trust me, gentleman, I'll prove more true 
Than those that have more cunning to be strange. 
I should have been more strange, I must confess, 
But that thou overheard'st, ere I was ware, 
My true love's passion : therefore pardon me, 
And not impute this yielding to light love, 
Which the dark night hath so discovered. 

Bom. Lady, by yonder blessed moon I swear 
That tips with silver all these fruit-tree tops — 

Jul. O, swear not by the moon, the inconstant moon, 
That monthly changes in her circled orb, 
Lest that thy love prove likewise variable. 

Bom. What shall I swear by? 

Jul. Do not swear at all ; 

Or, if thou wilt, swear by thy gracious self, 
Which is the god of my idolatry, 
And 111 believe thee. 

Bom. If my heart's dear love — 



52 THE QUEEN OF THE DXAMA'S 

Jul. Well, do not swear: although I joy in thee, 
I have no joy of this contract to-night : 
It is too rash, too unadvised, too sudden ; 
Too like the lightning, which doth cease to be 
Ere one can say "It lightens." Sweet, good night! 
This bud of love, by summer's ripening breath, 
May prove a beauteous flower when next we meet. 
Good night, good night ! as sweet repose and rest 
Come to thy heart as that within my breast ! 

Rom. O, wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied ? 

Jul. What satisfaction canst thou have to-night? 

Rom. The exchange of thy love's faithful vow for 
mine. 

Jul. I gave thee mine before thou didst request it : 
And yet I would it were to give "again. [love ? 

Rom. Wouldst thou withdraw it? for what purpose, 

Jul. But to be frank, and give it thee again, 
And yet I wish but for the thing I have : 
My bounty is as boundless as the sea. 
My love as deep ; the more I give to thee, 
The more I have, for both are infinite. 

[JVurse calls within. 
I hear some noise within; dear love, adieu! 
Anon, good nurse! Sweet Montague, be true. 
Stay but a little, I will come again. [Exit, above. 

Rom. O blessed, blessed night ! I am afeard, 
Being in night, all this is but a dream, 
Too flattering-sweet to be substantial. 

Re-enter Juliet, above. 

Jul. Three words, dear Romeo, and good night 
indeed. 
If that thy bent of love be honorable. 
Thy purpose marriage, send me word to-morrow, 
By one that I'll procure to come to thee, 
Where and what time thou wilt perform the rite ; 
And all my fortunes at thy foot I'll lay 
And follow thee my lord throughout the world. 

Nurse. \Within~\ Madam! 

Jul. I come anon. — But if thou mean'st not well, 



LIFE AND RECITA TIONS. 53 

I do beseech thee — 

Nurse. {Within'] Madam! 

Jul. By and by, I come : — 

To cease thy suit, and leave me to grief: 
To-morrow will I send. 

Horn. So thrive my soul — 

Jul. A thousand times good night! {Exit, above. 

Rom. A thousand times the worse, to want thy light. 
Love goes toward love, as schoolboys from their books, 
But love from love, toward school with heavy looks. 

{Retiring. 

Re-enter Juliet, above. 

Jul. Hist ! Romeo, hist ! O, for a falconer's voice, 
To lure this tassel-gentle back again! 
Bondage is hoarse, and may not speak aloud; 
Else would I tear the cave where Echo lies, 
And make her airy tongue more hoarse than mine, 
With repetition of my Romeo's name. 

Rom. It is my soul that calls upon my name : 
How silver sweet sound lovers' tongues by night, 
Like softest music to attending ears ! 

Jul. Romeo! 

Rom. My dear? 

Jul. At what o'clock to-morrow 

Shall I send to thee ? 

Rom. At the hour of nine. 

Jul. I will not fail : 'tis twenty years till then. 
I have forgot why I did call thee back. 

Rom. Let me stand here till thou remember it. 

Jul. I shall forget, to have thee still stand there, 
Remembering how I love thy company. 

Rom. And I'll still stay, to have thee still forget, 
Forgetting any other home but this. 

Jul. 'Tis almost morning ; I would have thee gone : 
And yet no further than a wanton's bird ; 
Who lets it hop a little from her hand, 
Like a poor prisoner in his twisted gyves, 
And with a silk thread plucks it back again, 



54 THE QUEEN OF THE DRAMA'S 

So loving-jealous of his liberty. 

Rom. I would I were thy bird. 

Jul. Sweet, so would I : 

Yet I should kill thee with much cherishing. 
Good night, good night ! parting is such sweet sorrow, 
That I shall say good night till it be morrow. 

{Exit above. 

Mom. Sleep dwell upon thine eyes, peace in thy 
breast ! 
"Would I were sleep and peace, so sweet to rest ! 
Hence will I to my ghostly father's cell, 
His help to crave, and my dear hap to tell. 

SHAKESPEABE. 



THE GRIEF OF CONSTANCE. 

KING JOHN Act IH— Scene 4. 

Enter Constance. 

Constance. Lo, now ! now see the issue of your 
peace. 

King Philip. Patience, good lady ! comfort, gen- 
tle Constance! 

Const. No, I defy all counsel, all redress, 
But that which ends all counsel, true redress, 
Death, death ; O amiable lovely death ! 
Thou odoriferous stench, sound rottenness ! 
Arise forth from the couch of lasting night, 
Thou hate and terror to prosperity, 
And I will kiss thy detestable bones 
And put my eyeballs in thy vaulty brows, 
And ring these fingers with thy household worms, 
And stop this gap of breath with fulsome dust 
And be a carrion monster like thyself: 
Come, grin on me, and I will think thou smilest 



LIFE AND RECITA TIONS. 55 

And buss thee as thy wife. Misery's love, 
O, come to me ! 

K. Phi. O fair affliction, peace! 

Const. No, no, I will not, having breath to cry : 
O, that my tongue were in the thunder's mouth ! 
Then with a passion would I shake the world; 
And rouse from sleep that fell anatomy 
Which cannot hear a lady's feeble voice, 
Which scorns a modern invocation. [row. 

Pandulpli. Lady, you utter madness, and not sor- 

Const. Thou art not holy to belie me so ; 
I am not mad : this hair I tear is mine ; 
My name is Constance ; I was Geffrey's wife ; 
Young Arthur is my son, and he is lost ; 
I am not mad : I would to heaven I were ! 
For then, 'tis like I should forget myself : 
O, if I could, what grief should I forget ! 
Preach some philosophy to make me mad, 
And thou shalt oe canonized, cardinal; 
For being not mad but sensible of grief, 
My reasonable part produces reason 
How I may be deliver'd of these woes, 
And teaches me to kill or hang myself : 
If I were mad, I should forget my son, 
Or madly think a babe of clouts were he : 
I am not mad; too well, too well I feel 
The different plague of each calamity. 

K. Phi. Bind up those tresses. O, what love I note 
In the fair multitude of those her hairs ! 
Where but by chance a silver drop hath fallen 
Even to that drop ten thousand wiry friends 
Do glue themselves in sociable grief, 
Like true, inseparable, faithful loves, 
Sticking together in calamity. 

Const. To England, if you will. 

K. Phi. Bind up your hairs. 

Const. Yes, that I will; and wherefore will I do it? 
I tore them from their bonds and cried aloud 
" O that these hands could so redeem my son, 
As they have given these hairs their liberty!" 



56 THE QUEEN OF THE DRAMA'S 

But now I envy at their liberty, 

And will again commit them to their bonds, 

Because my poor child is a prisoner. 

And, father cardinal, I have heard you say 

That we shall see and know our friends in heaven : 

If that be true, I shall see my boy again ; 

For since the birth of Cain, the first male child, 

To him that did but yesterday suspire, 

There was not such a gracious creature born 

But now will canker-sorrow eat my bud 

And chase the native beauty from his cheek 

And he will look as hollow as a ghost, 

As dim and meagre as an ague's fit. 

And so he'll die; and, rising so again, 

When I shall meet him in the court of heaven 

I shall not know him : therefore never, never 

Must I behold my pretty Arthur more. 

JPand. You hold too heinous a respect of grief. 

Const. He talks to me that never had a son. 

K. Phi. You are as fond of grief as of your child. 

Const. Grief fills the room up of my absent child, 
Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me, 
Puts on his pretty looks, repeats his words, 
Kemembers me of all his gracious parts, 
Stuffs out his vacant garments with his form ; 
Then, have I reason to be fond of grief ? 
Fare you well : had you such a loss as I, 
I could give better comfort than you do. 
I will not keep this form upon my head, 
When there is such disorder in my wit. 
O Lord! my boy, my Arthur, my fair son! 
My life, my joy, my food, my all the world! 
My widow-comfort, and my sorrows' cure ! 

SHAKESPEARE. 



LIFE AND REGIT A TI0N8. 57 

A DREAM OF MIRIAM. 

Then I heard 
A noise of some one coming through the lawn, 
And singing clearer than the crested bird, 
That claps his wings at dawn. 

" The torrent brooks of hallowed Israel, 

From craggy hollows pouring, late and soon, 

Sound all night long, in falling thro' the dell, 
Far-heard beneath the moon. 

"The balmy moon of blessed Israel 

Floods all the deep-blue gloom with beams divine : 
All night the splintered crags that wall the dell 

With spires of silver shine. " 

As one that museth where broad sunlight laves 
The lawn by some cathedral, thro' the door 

Hearing the holy organ rolling waves 
Of sound on roof and floor. 

"Within, and anthem sung, is charmed and tied 
To where he stands, — so stood I, when that flow 

Of music left the lips of her that died 
To save her father's vow : 

The daughter of the warrior Gileadite, 
A maiden pure ; as when she went along 
From Mizpeth's tower'd gate with welcome light, 

With timbrel and with song. 

My words leapt forth: "Heaven heads the count of 
crimes 

With that wild oath." She rendered answer high : 
"Not so, nor once alone : a thousand times 

I would be born and die. 

" Single I grew, like some green plant, whose root 
Creeps to the garden water-pipes beneath, 

Feeding the flower ; but ere my flower to fruit 
Changed, I was ripe for death. 



58 THE QUEEN OF THE DRAMA'S 

k 'My God, my land, my father — these did move 
Me from my bliss of life, that nature gave, 
Lower'd softly with a threefold cord of love 
Down to a silent grave. 

"And I went mourning, "No fair Hebrew boy 
Shall smile away my maiden blame among 

The Hebrew mothers' — emptied of all joy, 
Leaving the dance and song. 

" Leaving the olive-gardens far below, 
Leaving the promise of my bridal bower, 

The valleys of grape-loaded vines that glow 
Beneath the battled tower. 

"The light white cloud swam over us. Anon 
We heard the lion roaring from his den ; 

We saw the large white stars rise one by one, 
Or, from the darken'd glen, 

" Saw God divide the night with flying flame, 
And thunder on the everlasting hills. 

I heard him, for he spake, and grief became 
A solemn scorn of ills. 

"When the next moon was rolled into the sky, 
Strength came to me that equall'd my desire, 

How beautiful a thing it was to die 
For God and for my sire ! 

"It comforts me in this one thought to dwell, 
That I subdued me to my father's will ; 

Because the kiss he gave me, ere I fell 
Sweetens the spirit still." 

* * * Here her face 

Glowed, as I looked at her. 

She locked her lips : she left me where I stood : 
" Glory to God," she sang, and passed afar, 

Thridding the sombre boskage of the wood, 
Toward the morning-star. 



TENNYSON. 



LIFE AND RECITATIONS. 59 

MASTER WALTER'S WARD. 

THE HUNCHBACK Act I.— Scene 2. 

Helen, (l.) I like not, Julia, this, your country life. 
I'm weary on't. 

Julia, (k.) Indeed! So am not I! 
I know no other ; would no other know. [know 

Helen. You would no other know ! Would you not 
Another relative? — another friend — 
Another house — another anything, 
Because the ones you have already please you? 
That's poor content! "Would you not be more rich? 
"More wise, more fair ? " The song that last you learned 
You fancy well, and, therefore, shall you learn 
No other song? Your virginal, 'tis true, 
Hath a sweet tone ; but does it follow thence, 
You shall not have another virginal ? 
You may love, and a sweeter one, and so 
A sweeter life may find, than this you lead ! 

Julia. I seek it not. Helen, I'm constancy ! 

Helen. So is a cat, a dog, a silly hen, 
An owl, a bat — where they are wont to lodge 
That still sojourn, nor care to shift their quarters. 
Thou'rt constancy? I'm glad I know thy name! 
The spider comes of the same family, 
That in his meshy fortress spends his life, 
Unless you pull it down, and scare him from it. 
And so thou'rt constancy? Art proud of that? 
And so, in very deed, thou'rt constancy? 

Julia. Helen, you know the adage of the tree — 
I've ta'en the bend. This rural life of mine, 
Enjoined by an unknown father's will, 
I've led from infancy. Debarred from hope 
Of change, I ne'er have sighed for change. The town 
To me was like the moon, for any thought 
I e'er should visit it — nor was I schooled 
To think it half so fair! 

Helen. Not half so fair! 



60 THE QUEEN OF THE DRAMA'S 

The town's the sun, and thou hast dwelt in night 
E'er since thy birth, not to have seen the town ! 
Their women there are queens, and kings their men ; 
Their houses palaces ! (crosses, r.) 

Julia, (crosses l.) And what of that? 
Have your town palaces a hall like this? 
Couches so fragrant? Walls so high adorned? 
Casements with such festoons, such prospects, Helen, 
As these fair vistas have ? Your kings and queens ! 
See me a May-day queen, and talk of them. 

Helen. Extremes are never neighbors. 'Tis a step 
From one to the other! Were thy constancy 
A reasonable thing — a little less 
Of constancy — a woman's constancy — 
I should not wonder wert thou ten years hence 
The maid I know thee now ; but as it is, 
The odds are ten to one, that this day year 
Will see our May-day queen a city one. 

Julia. Never ! I'm wedded to a country life. 
O, did you hear what Master Walter says? 
Nine times in ten the town's a hollow thing, 
Where what things are. is naught to what they show ; 
Where merit's name laughs merit's self to scorn ! 
Where friendship and esteem, that ought to be 
The tenants of men's hearts, lodge in their looks 
And tongues alone. Where little virtue, with 
A costly keeper, passes for a heap ; 
A heap for none, that have a homely one ! 
Where fashion makes the law — your umpire which 
You bow to, whether it have brains or not. 
Where Folly taketh off his cap and bell, 
To clap on Wisdom, which must bear the jest! 
Where, to pass current, you must seem the thing, 
The passive thing that others think you, and not 
Your simple, honest, independent self! (crosses, r.) 

Helen. Ay, so says Master Walter. See I not 
What you can find in Master Walter, Julia, 
To be so fond of him ! 

Julia, He's fond of me ! 



LIFE AND BECITATIONS. 61 

I've known him since I was a child. E'en then 

The week I thought a weary, heavy one, 

That brought not Master Walter. I had those 

About me then that made a fool of me. 

As children oft are fooled ; but more I loved 

Good Master Walter's lesson, than the play 

With which they'd surfeit me. As I grew up, 

More frequent Master Walter came, and more 

I loved to see him. I had tutors then, 

Men of great skill and learning — but not one [me, 

That taught like Master Walter. What they'd show 

And I, dull as I was, but doubtful saw — 

A word from Master Walter made as clear 

As daylight. When my schooling days were o'er — 

That's now good three years past — three years — I vow 

I'm twenty, Helen — well, as I was saying, 

When I had done with school, and all were gone, 

Still Master Walter came, and still he comes, 

Summer or winter — frost or rain. I've seen 

The snow upon a level with the hedge, 

Yet there was Master Walter! 



KNOWLES. 



THE WIFE'S SUPPLICATION. 

FAZIO Act IV.— Scene 3. 

Enter Aldabella. 

Aldabella. Fazio in prison! Fazio doom'd to die! — 
I was too hasty ; should have fled, and bashfully 
Beckoned him after ; lured him, not seized on him. 
Proud Aldabella a poor robber's paramour ! 
Oh, it sounds dismal! Florence must not hear it — 
And sooth, his time is brief to descant on it. — 



62 THE QUEEN OF THE DRAMA'S 

Enter Bianca. 
And who art thou, thus usherless and unbidden, 
Scarest my privacy? 

Bianca. There is one — 
Fie, fie upon this choking in my throat — 
One thou didst love, — Giraldi Fazio ; — 
One who loved thee, — Giraldi Fazio, — 
He's doom'd to die, to die to-morrow morning. 
Thou'rt high-born, rich and beautiful ; the prince, 
The prime of Florence wait upon thy smiles, 
Like sunflowers on the golden light they love ; 
Thy lips have such sweet melody, 'tis hung upon 
Till silence is an agony. Did it plead 
For one condemn' d, but oh, most innocent, 
'T would be a music th' air would fall in love with, 
And never let it die till it had won 
Its honest purpose. 

Aid. What a wanton waste 
Of idle praise is here ! 

Bian. Frown not on me : 
Thou think' st that he's a murderer — 'tis all false ; 
A trick of Fortune, fancifully cruel, 
To cheat the world of such a life as Fazio's. 

Aid. Frivolous and weak: I could not if I would. 

Bian. Nay, but I'll lure thee with so rich a boon — 
Hear — hear, and thou art won. If thou dost save him, 
It is but just he should be saved for thee. 
I give him thee — Bianca — I, his wife — 
I pardon all that has been, all that may be — 
Oh, I will be thy handmaid ; be so patient — 
Calmly, contentedly, and sadly patient — 
And if you see a pale or envious motion 
Upon my cheek, a quivering on my lips, 
Like to complaint — then strike him dead before me. 
Thou shalt enjoy all — all that I enjoy'd: — 
His love, his life, his sense, his soul be thine ; 
And I will bless thee, in my misery bless thee. 

Aid. What mist is on my wild and wandering eyes? 
Know'st thou to whom and where thou play'st the 
raver? 



LIFE AND RECITATIONS. 63 

I, Aldabella, whom the amorous homage 
Of rival lords and princes stir no more 
Than the light passing of the common air — 
I— 

Bian. Proud-lipped woman, earth's most gorgeous 
sovereigns 
Were worthless of my Fazio ! Foolish woman, 
Thou cast'st a jewel off! The proudest lord 
That ever revell'd in thy unchaste arms 
Was a swarth galley-slave to Fazio. 
Ah, me ! ah me 3 e'en I, his lawful wife, 
Know't not more truly, certainly than thou. 
Hadst thou loved him, I had pardon'd, pitied thee ; 
We two had sat, all cold, palely sad ; 
Dropping, like statues on a fountain side, 
A pure, a silent, and eternal dew. 
Hadst thou outwept me, I had loved thee for't — 
And that were easy, for I'm stony here. 

[Putting her hands to her eyes. 

Aid. {Ttirning aioay.) There is a dizzy trembling 
in mine eye ; 
But I must dry the foolish dew for shame. 
Well, what is it to me? I slew him not; 
Nay, nor denounced him to the judgment seat. 
I but debase myself to lend free hearing 
To such coarse fancies. I must hence, to-night 
I feast the lords of Florence. [Exit. 

Bian. They're all lies : 
All tales of human goodness ! Or they're legends 
Left us of some good old forgotten time, 
Ere harlotry became a queenly sin, 
And housed in palaces. Oh, earth's so crowded 
With Vice, that if strange Virtue stray abroad, 
They hoot it from them like a thing accurst, 
Fazio, my Fazio! but we'll laugh at them: 
We will not stay upon their wicked soil, 
E'en though they sue us not to die and leave them. 

MILMAN. 



64 THE QUEEN OF TBE DRAMA'S 

GREEK GIRL AND THE BARBARIAN. 

INGOMAR. Act II.— Scene 1. 

Ingomar. That's good ; come, that looks well ; 
She is a brave girl! she rules herself, and if 
She keep her word, we have made a good exchange — 
'I'll weep no more.' Aha! I like the girl. 

And if Ho ! whither goest thou ? 

{To Parthenia who is going off with two goblets. 
Parthenia. Where should I go? to yonder brook, to 

cleanse the cups. 
Ing. No ! stay and talk with me. 
Par. I have duties to perform. {Going 

Ing. Stay — I command you, slave! 
Par. I am no slave! your hostage, but no slave. 
I go to cleanse the cups. . {Exit l. 

Ing. Ho! here's a self-willed thing — here is a spirit! 

{Mimicking her. 
' I will not, I am no slave ! I have duties to perform ! 
Take me for hostage!' and she flung back her head 
As though she brought with her a ton of gold ! 
'I'll weep no more,' — Aha! an impudent thing. 
She pleases me ! I love to be opposed ; [snarl, 

I love my horse when he rears, my dogs when they 
The mountain torrent, and the sea, when it flings 
Its foam up to the stars ; such things as these 
Fill me with life and joy. Tame indolence 
Is living death ! the battle of the strong 
Alone is life! 

{During this speech Parthenia has returned 
with the cups and a bundle of field flowers. 
She seats herself on apiece of rock in front. 
Ing. Ah ! she is here again. {He approaches her, 
and leans over her on the rock.) What art thou making 
there? 
Par. I ? garlands. 



LIFE AND RECITA TIONS. 65 

I)i (/. Garlands? 

Musing.] It seems to me as I before had seen her 
In a dream! How! Ab, my brother! — he who died 
A child — yes, that is it. My little Folko — 

She has his dark brown hair, his sparkling eye: 

Evan the voice seems known again to me: 

I'll not to sleep — I'll talk to her. [Returns to her. 

These yon call garlands, 

And wherefore do you weave them? 

Par. For these cups. 

Ing. How? 

Par. Is it not with you a custom? With us 
At home, we love to intertwine with flowers, 
Our cups and goblets. 

Ing. What use is such a plaything? 

Par. Use? They are beautiful ; that is their use. 
The sight of them makes glad the eye ; their scent 
Refreshes, cheers. There 

[Fastens the half-finished garland round a cup 
and presents it to him.'] Is not that, now 
beautiful ? [up 

Ing. Ay — by the bright sun ! That dark green mixed 
With the gay flowers ! Thou must teach our women 
To weave such garlands. 

Par. That is soon done : thy wife 
Herself shall soon weave wreaths as well as I. [woman 

Ing. {Laughing heartily.) My wife! my wife! a 
Dost thou say? 
I thank the gods, not I. This is my wife — 

[Pointing to his accoutrements. 
My spear, my shield, my sword ; let him who will 
Waste cattle, slaves, or gold, to buy a woman ; 
Not I— not I! 

Par. To buy a woman? — how? 

Ing. What is the matter? why dost look so strangely? 

Par. How ! did I hear aright ? bargain for brides 
As you would slaves — buy them like cattle? 

Ing. Well, I think a woman fit only for a slave. 
We follow our own customs, as you yours. 
How do you in your city there ? 



66 THE QUEEN OF THE DRAMA'S 

Par. Consult our hearts. 

Massilia free-born daughters are not sold, 
But bound by choice with bands as light and sweet 
As these I hold. Love only buys us there. [bands! 

Ing. Marry for love — what ! do you love your hus- 

JPar. Why marry else ? 

Ing. Many for love ; that's strange! 
I cannot comprehend. I love my horse, 
My dogs, my brave companions — but no woman! 
What dost thou mean by love — what is it, girl? 

Par. What is it? ' Tis of all things the most sweet — 
The heaven of life — or, so my mother says, 
I never felt it. 

Ing. Never? 

Par. No, indeed. [Looking at garland. 

Now look how beautiful ! Here would I wave 
Red flowers if I had them. 

Ing. Yonder there, 

In that thick wood they grow 

Par. How sayest thou? [some. 

{Looking off.) Oh, what a lovely red! Go pluck me 

Ing. {Starting at the suggestion.) I go for thee? 
the master serve the slave! 

[Gazing on her with increasing interest- 

And yet, why not? I'll go — the poor child's tired. 

Par. Dost thou hesitate? 

Ing. No, thou shall have the flowers 
As fresh and dewy as the bush affords. 

[He goes off, r 

Par. {Holding out the wreath.) 
I never yet succeeded half so well. 
It will be charming! Charming? and for whom? 
Here among savages ! no mother here 
Looks smiling on it — I am alone, forsaken ? 
But no, I'll weep no more! No, none shall say I fear. 

Re-enter Ingomar, with a bunch of flowers, and 
slowly advancing towards Parthenia. 



LIFE AND RECITATIONS. 67 

Ing. (Aside.) The little Folko, when in his play he 
wanted 
Flowers or fruit, would so cry ' Bring them to me ; 
Quick ! I will have them — these I will have or none ; ' 
Till somehow he compelled me to obey him, 
And she, with the same spirit, the same fire — 
Yes there is much of the bright child in her, 
Well, she shall be a little brother to me ! 
There are the flowers. [Tie hands her the flowers. 

Par. Thanks, thanks. Oh, thou hast broken them 
Too short off in the stem 

[She throics some of them on the ground. 

Ing. Shall I go and get thee more? 

Par. No, these will do. 

Ing. Tell me now about your home — I will sit here 
Near thee. 

Par. Not there: thou art crushing all the flowers. 

Ing. (Seating himself at her feet.) 
Well, well ; I will sit here, then. And now tell me, 
What is your name ! 

Par. Parthenia. 

Ing. Parthenia ! 

A pretty name ! and now, Parthenia, tell me 
How that which you call love grows in the soul ; 
And what love is : 'tis strange, but in that word pess 
There's something seems like yonder ocean — fathom- 

Par. How shall I say? Love comes, my mother 



Like flowers in the night — reach me those violets- 
It is a flame a single look will kindle, 
But not an ocean quench. 
Fostered by dreams, excited by each thought, 
Love is a star from heaven, that points the way 
And leads us to its home — a little spot 
In earth's dry desert, where the soul may rest — 
A grain of gold in the dull sand of life — 
A foretaste of Elysium ; but when, 
Weary of this world's woes, the immortal gods 
Flew to the skies, with all their richest gifts, 



68 THE QUEEN OF THE DRAMA' 8 

Love stayed behind, self-exiled for man's sake! 

Ing. I never yet heard aught so beautiful! 
But still I comprehend it not. 

Par. Nor I. 

For I have never felt it; yet I know 
A song my mother sang, an ancient song, 
That plainly speaks of love at least to me. 
How goes it ? stay — 

[Slowly, as trying to recollect. 

'What love is, if thou wouldst be taught, 

Thy heart must teach alone, — 
Two souls with "but a single thought, 
Two hearts that beat as one.' 

1 And whence comes love ? like morning's light, 

It comes without thy call ; 
And how dies love ? — A spirit bright, 

Love never dies at all!' 

And when — and when 

[Hesitating as unable to continue. 

Ing. Go on. 

Par. I know no more. 

Ing. {Impatiently^) Try — Try. 

Par. I cannot now ; but at some other time 
I may remember. 

Ing. {Somewhat authoritatively.) Now, go on I say. 

Par. {Springing up in alarm.) Not now, I want 
more roses for my wreath ! 
Yonder they grow, I will fetch them for myself. 
Take care of all my flowers and the wreath ! [runs off. 

[Throws the flowers into Ingomar s lap and 
Ing. {after a pause, without changing his position, 
speaking to himself in deep abstraction.) 

* Two souls with but a single thought, 
Two hearts that beat as one.' 



LIFE AND RE CI TA T10N8. 69 



MARGARET. 

O sweet pale Margaret, 
O rare pale Margaret, 
What lit your eyes with tearful power, 
Like moonlight on a falling shower ? 
Who lent you, love, your mortal dower 

Of pensive thought and aspect pale, 
Your melancholy sweet and frail 
As perfume of the cuckoo-flower? 
From the westward winding flood, 
From the evening-lighted wood, 

From all things outward you have won 
A tearful grace, as though you stood 

Between the rainbow and the sun. 
The very smile before you speak, 
That dimples your transparent cheek, 

Encircles all the heart, and feedeth 
The senses with a still delight 

Of dainty sorrow without sound, 
Like the tender amber round, 
"Which the moon around her spreadeth, 
Moving through a fleecy night. 

You love, remaining peaceful, 

To hear the murmur of the strife 

But enter not the toil of life. 
Your spirit is the calmed sea, 

Laid by the tumult of the fight. 
You are the evening star, alway 

Remaining betwixt dark and bright : 
Lull'd echoes of laborious day 

Come to you, gleams of mellow light 

Float by you on the verge of night. 
What can it matter, Margaret, 

W T hat songs below the waning stars, 
The lion-heart, Plantagenet, 



70 THE QUEEN OF THE DRAMA'S 

Sang, looking through his prison bars ? 
Exquisite Margaret, who can tell 
The last wild thought of Chatelet, 
Just ere the falling axe did part 
The burning brain from the true heart, 
Even in her sight he loved so well ? 

A fairy shield your Genius made, 

And gave you on your natal day. 
Your sorrow, only sorrow's shade, 

Keeps real sorrow far away. 
You move not in such solitudes, 

You are not less divine, 
But more human in your moods, 

Than your twin-sister, Adeline, 
Your hair is darker, and your eyes 

Touched with a somewhat darker hue, 

And less aerially blue, 

But ever trembling through the dew 
Of dainty- woful sympathies. 

O sweet pale Margaret. 

O rare pale Margaret, 
Come down, come down, and hear me speak: 
Tie up the ringlets on your cheek : 

The sun is just about to set, 
The arching lines are tall and shady, 

And faint, rainy lights are seen, 
Moving in the heavy beech. 
Bise from the feast of sorrow, lady, 

Where all day long you sit between 
Joy and woe, and whisper each. 
Or only look across the lawn, 

Look out below your bower eaves, 
Look down, and let your blue eyes dawn 

Upon me through the jasmine leaves. 



LIVE AJVD RECITATIONS. 71 

MY HUSBAND . 

A surging crowd, a woman's piteous cry, 

A mocking laugh and lightly uttered jest, 
Are all that reach me as they hurry by. 

But the full meaning I have rightly guessed — 
Another tenant for the prison cell, 

A woman, too ! the pity of it all ! 
What has she done 1 Alas ! I cannot tell ; 

They'll tell me later when I chance to call. 
****** 

I find the woman sitting in her cell, 

Wringing her hands, and shedding bitter tears, 
Her thin, pale cheeks their tale of sorrow tell ; 

Her bony form, too, bent, but not with years. 
Her eyes meet mine, but ere my tongue can speak 

She falls upon her knees upon the floor, 
Crying, " Oh ! God forgive me, I was weak ; 

But he will die, and I could beg no more. 

"Why have you torn me from him? Let me go! 

You will not leave him there to die alone, 
While I, his lawful wife, am here? Oh! no: 

Let me go to him, if you are not stone. 
I tell you he is dying, sir, for bread — 

A big strong man, sir, murdered in his prime! 
I could not beg the food ; I stole instead ; * 

Stole, sir, to save his life ! Was that a crime ? 

" For fifteen years we've labored side by side ; 

For fifteen years his faithful wife I've been ; 
And many a time, sir, we've been sorely tried, 

For many a bitter trouble we have seen. 
Our children died of hunger, one by one ; 

We could not feed them as they should be fed. 
They died ! We tried to say, ' Thy will be done,' 

But 'tisn't easy when your hopes are dead. 

" And many a time we said we'd have no more, 
But when we s:iw some neighbor's baby-boy, 



72 THE QUEEN OF THE DRAMA'S 

And watched his childish gambols round our door, 
And marked the mother's pride, the father's joy — 

Why, we were human, sir, and thought, alas! 

That Heaven perchance might let the next one stay 

But one by one they withered like the grass, 
And one by one they died and passed away. 

" And all the years we've struggled, he and I, 

To keep our sorrows hid from mortal eyes. 
' Cheer up, dear, things will brighten by and by ; 

The world is hard but God is good and wise.' 
That's what he always said when things went wrong, 

When work was scarce, and food was hard to get — 
'Cheer up, dear, he would say; 'it won't be long; 

Let's trust in God, He's never failed us yet ! ' 

" And we have waited — sometimes waited long — 

And we have prayed for help, and help has come. 
But every winter something has gone wrong, 

And every year we've been without a home. 
The little treasures we would fain have kept — 

The playthings of our dear ones dead and gone — 
Were sold for food ! How bitterly we wept, 

They only guess who such a grief have known. 

" And then this illness came and struck him down. 

And he grew w r eak and weaker every day ; 
While I have done odd jobs about the town 

To earn him food, and help and pay the w T ay. 
But he grew worse ! And then the doctor came, 

And ordered med'cine, nourishment, and wine. 
Oh ! he meant well, sir ; he was not to blame ; 

He did his duty — and then I did mine! 

"For two days I had neither bite nor sup. 

Oh ! how I suffered ; but he never knew. 
And every hour more bitter grew my cup, 

For every hour still worse and worse he grew. 
Then work ran short. I begged, and begged in vain. 

'Cheer up my lass,' he said, 'the times will mend ! 



LIFE AND RECITA TI0N8. 73 

We've trusted God before ; let's trust again ; 
We need not fear while we have such a friend ! ' 

• k But every day the fiercer grew our need, 

And hunger gnawed us like a savage beast. 
My frenzied brain conceived the desperate deed [least. 

Of theft I Was't crime? 'Twould save his life at 
God knows that I could see no other way. 

Had I not begged and prayed — and both in vain? 
I did not think of what the world might say— 

If that would save him, I could bear the stain ! 

"I stood outside a fashionable shop, 

And watched the tide of wealth go rolling in ; 
And as I gazed, I saw a carriage stop — 

My soul burned with the fever of my sin! 
A lady stepped out, clad in silks so grand, 

And holding in her dainty clasp a purse; 
I darted forward, snatched it from her hand 

And fled, like one who flees before a curse. 

"But I was weak and faint, and swifter feet 

Than mine were following, and soon ran me down. 
Policemen came and dragged me through the street ; 

And I am now the by-word of the town. 
And he is dying there, while I am here. 

And cannot soothe or raise his fevered head. 
For God's sake, take me to him! Never fear, 

I'll come back here again — when he is dead! 

u Do with me what you will when he is gone; 

I care not then what punishment you give. 
But do not let him perish there alone ; 

Do with me what you will, but let him live ! 
Oh! save his life, sir, and I'll be your slave, 

And God will send His blessings on your head. 
Don't let them put him in a pauper's grave, 

And treat him like dog when he is dead ! 



74 THE QUEEN OF THE DRAMA'S 

"God bless you, sir! Oh! speak those words again! 

You'll take me out ? Oh ! quick, then ; let us go. 
Thank Heaven, this time I have not begged in vain. 

Why don't they let us out ? They are so slow. . . 
Don't tell him I've been here, sir ; he is ill ! 

Poor dear, he never had a thought of wrong. 
Don't let him know this, sir ; the shame would kill. 

He always said, 'Wait, dear, it won't be long.' 

7F yf: ¥fc 9fc ■Jfc *3jS" 

"Ah! here it is, sir; mind the broken stair. 

It's dark, sir ; for we can't afford a light. 
We're glad to find a shelter anywhere ; 

It's hard to walk about the streets all night. 
Ah! there he is ! John, dear, I've come again ; 

I'm sorry, dear, you've had so long to wait. 
What's this ? — He's cold ! — Oh ! I have come in vain — 

He's dead ! He's dead ! And I am too late, too late ! 

And as this happened in a Christian land ? 

It comes before me like a hideous dream. 
Too true, alas ! I hear on every hand 

The orphan's wail, the widow's anguished scream. 
And poverty, red-eyed, stalks gaunt and bare, 

While pampered Wealth sits in the justice seat ! 
Bat hark ! a sentence cleaves the humid air — 

' They hungered and ye gave them not to eat ! ' ' 

HAWKINS. 



ROUND THE BIVOUAC FIRE. 

Round the bivouac fire, at midnight, 

Lay the weary warrior-band ; 
Bloody were their spears with slaughter ; 

Gory was each hero's hand: 
For the ghastly fight was ended: 

From each soul a whisper came : 
" God of Battles ! we have triumphed : 

Hallowed be Thy mighty Name ! " 



LIFE AND RECITATIONS. 75 

It was beautiful, at midnight, 

When the bloody war was done, 
When the battle clashed no longer, 

And no longer blazed the sun, 
Calmly, in the balmy starlight, 

To repose our wearied limbs, 
Not a sound to stir the stillness, 

Save the sound of holy hymns ; 

" Thou hast given us the glory : 

Thou hast cast our foes to shame ! 
God of Battles we have triumphed; 

Hallowed be Thy mighty Name! 
Thou hast given us the glory: 

Thou hast bade oiu- troubles cease: 
Thou art great as God of Battles : 

Thou art best as God of Peace ! " 

Peaceful was the world around them: 

In the peaceful summer skies 
Watched the sentry stars above them, 

Like the host of angel-eyes[: 
Shone the sentinel stars in splendour 

On each slumbering hero's head, 
And the moonlight gleamed in glory 

On the dying and the dead. 

Rosily wore the night to morning: 

Cheerily, at their heart's desire, 
Sang the soldiers songs of triumph, 

Round the ruddy bivouac fire: 
Flushed their faces were with glory : 

Strong were they, and brave, and tall: 
But the tender tears of childhood 

Bathed the bravest face of all! 

Pensive, by the gleaming firelight, 

Mute the lonely warrior stood : 
In his hand a paper grasped he, 

Scrawled with letters, large and crude : 
In his gory hands he grasped it ; 

And the tender childly tear, 



76 THE QUEEN OF THE DRAMA'S 

From his manly bosom welling, 
Bathed the blood upon his spear! 

Silent wore the night to morning: 

Silent, at their heart's desire, 
Watching, lay the weary warriors, 

Round the gleaming bivouac fire: 
What's the news from home, dear comrade ? 

What's the sorry news for thee, 
From the friends we left behind us, 

And our home beyond the sea?" 

Then the gory paper oped he, 

Scrawled with letters, crude and wild : 
"Little news from home, dear comrades: 

Tis a letter from my child. ' 
"From our merry merry babes, 

Welcome is the news ! " they said: 
And the soldiers lay in silence, 

While the warrior rose, and read: 

"Oh my father! what has kept you? 

You are nigh three years away : 
It was snow-time when you left us: 

It was morn o' New Year's day ; 
'Good-by, baby, until summer, 

Or till Christmas time,' you said: 
Oh my father! what has kept you? 

Summer, Christmas, twice have fled. 
" Mother says our war is hoty — 

That you bear a noble na,me — 
That you fight for God and Honor, 

And to shield our home from shame.: 
But I often hear her praying: 

* Make all war, O God to cease : 
Thou art great as God of battles : 

Thou art best as God of Peace ! ' 

"Night and morn I pray for father: 

In the sunny morning hours 
I am often in the garden : 

I have sown your name in flowers ! 



LIFE AND RECITATIONS. 77 

Like your coat, in flowers of scarlet — 

All in tulips, soldier-red; 
Come, before the flowers are faded : 

Come before your name is dead ! 

" Little brother died at Christmas : 

Mother told me not to tell : 
But I think it better, father; 

For you said, 'The dead are well.' 
He was buried side o' Mary: 

Mother since has never smiled: 
Till we meet, good-bj% dear father — 

From your little loving child ! " 

Silent wore the night to morning : 

Silent, at their soul's desire, 
Lay the warriors, lost in dreaming, 

Round the dying bivouac fire: 
Home were they, once more, once more! 

Miles were they from war's alarms ! 
Hark! the sudden bugle sounding! 

Hark! the cry: "To arms! to arms! " 

Out from ambush, out from thicket, 

Charged the foemen through the plain! 
" Up ! my warriors ! arm ! my heroes ! 

Strike for God and home again ! 
For our homes, our babes, our country ! " 

And the ruddy morning light 
Flared on brandished falchions bloody 

Still with gore of yesternight ! 

Purple grew the plain with slaughter— 

Steed and rider, side by side ; 
And the crimson day of carnage 

In a crimson sunset died: 
Shuddering on the field of battle 

Glimpsed the starlight overhead, 
And the moon-light, ghost-like, 

Glimmered on the dying and the dead ! 



78 THE QUEEN OF THE DRAMA'S 

Faint and few, around the fire-light, 

"Were the stretched, outwearied limbs : 
Faint and few the hero-voices 

That uprose in holy hymns : 
Few the warriors left to whisper, 

" Thou hast cast our foes to shame : 
God of battles we have triumphed : 

Hallowed be thy mighty Name ! " 

On the purple plain of slaughter, 

Who is this that smiles in rest, 
With a shred of gory paper 

Lying on his mangled breast? 
Nought remaining, save a fragment, 

Scrawled with letters, crude and wild: 
" Till we meet, good-by, dear father — 

From your little loving child ! " 

Raise him softly ; lift him gently : 

Stanch his life-blood, ebbing slow : 
He is breathing — he is whispering — 

What is this he murmurs low ? 
" Saved ! my child — my home — my country ! 

Father, give my pangs release : 
Thou art great as God of Battles : 

Thou art best as God of Peace ! " 



THE CRY OF THE POOR. 

The heart of the City is black with sin, 

Black in its inmost core ; 
For Sorrow, God's shadow, falls dark within 

The noiseless homes of the poor ; 
The strong man gnaweth his iron chain, 

And hungers from night to morn, 
The woman lying apart in pain 

Curses the babe unborn ; 
The little children make moan alway, 

Shelterless, starven, bereaven, 



LIFE A dtD RECITA TIONS. 79 

With souls that glimmer thro' slender clay. 
And beacon their mothers from heaven. 
The rich man's larder is richly stored, 

But the poor look up unfed ; 
The rich man cries, " Give us light, O Lord!" 
The hungry, "Give us bread! " 

Blackness from morn till the pitiless stars 

Veil their religion of light, 
And blackness too when the brazen bars 

Of sunset are molten in night ; 
Blackness of alley, and street, and lane, 

Where singeth never a bird; 
And yet in the midst of the pang and pain 

No prayer for the light is heard: 
The starving and destitute would not know : 

Their spirits unclean and stark, 
Circumscribed by their need and their woe, 
Are better they say, in the dark. 

The rich man seeketh a pleasant sky 

Beyond the graves of the dead ; 
And " Lord give us light ! " the wealthy cry, 
The hungry, " Give us bread ! " 

The rich man hoardeth his nobler woe 

To savor his pleasure and love ; 
The sweet delight of his earth below 

Doth color his heaven above ; 
His hopes lie beautiful on before, 

He knoweth no petty strife, 
And he has raiment and food in store 

For his little ones and wife ; 
He craveth for light, while overhead 

He perceives the golden day ; 
In flowery pleasures his babes are led, 
And he has leisure to pray. 

The rich man worshipping God by night, 

Sees the beckoning stars overhead : 
The rich man prayeth, "Lord, give me light!" 
The hungry give me bread ! " 



80 THE QUEEN OF THE DRAMA'S 

The poor man hungereth in his doubt, 

He can see nor stars nor sky, 
For his eyes are on earth as he hollows out 

Graves for the loved as they die ; 
He struggles onward in troublous breath, 

With no holy of holies above, 
Subtracting the wormwood of life and death 

From the pity of God and His love ; 
The dead and buried are not to him 

Sweet charters to conquer the tomb, — 
They gleam like angry devils and dim 

On the brink of a fathomless gloom. 
The rich man's earthier paradise 

Hints a heaven beyond the dead ; 

And "Lord, give us light!" the rich man cries, 
The hungry, " Give us bread ! " 

" Bread, give us bread ! " the poor man says ; 
" Bread, bread! " cry children and wives; 
And "Lord, give us light! " the rich man prays, 

The light of Thy holier lives. 
The cries clash daily without accord, 
They cease not morning or night, 
The wealthy ask not for bread, Lord, 

The starving ask not for light ; 
There cometh no rest to low or to high, 

Woe mirroreth earth, joy, heaven ; 
The poor ask bread, and the wealthy try 
To sweeten the bread which is given. 

The rich man, master of earth, seeks more 

Beyond the graves of the dead ; 
But, narrow'd to that they lack, the poor 
Cry loudly, " Give us bread ! " 

Ah, me! — to wander with ears and eyes, 

Thro' alley, and street, and lane, 
To see the visions of paradise 

Obscured by the grosser pain ; 
To see the strong man shrink from the path 

That leadeth up to the sky. 



LIFE AND RE CI TA TIONS. 8 1 

To see the hungry arise in wrath, 
And deny the light, and die ; — 
Oh. heal the earthly bitterness first, 

Sisters and brothers mine ; 
And after bread should follow the thirst 
For the light which is divine! 

The rich man's plentiful nights and days 

Are radiant with pleasures fled ; 
And "Lord give us light! " the rich man prays, 
The hungry, "Give me bread!" 

Out in the fields where the sun is bright, 

Upspringeth the yellow corn, 
It springs and grows in the shining light 

Till the bountiful acres are shorn; 
The reaper reapeth on golden ground, 

And the sun-tanned gleaners glean, 
And the wheels of the mill go busily round 

With the rich white grain between. 
But the hungry live in the crowded street, 

In poverty, sickness and pain — 
'Tis the blessed and bountiful grain they entreat, 

Not the light that has ripened the grain ! 

■JK" yfc $£ ^F" ¥fc 

And toiling downward, the homeless poor 

Seek graves as their only goals ; 
The draught that comes from the rich man's door 

Blows out the lamps of their souls; 
And reft of the guarding and guiding light 

The beautiful Soul must give, 
They hunger on in the pitiless night, 

Knowing only by need that they live ; 
And stretched apart as the dregs of life, 

They rot on the rich man's land, 
And when death cometh for baby or wife 

They gnaw at his outstretched hand ! 
They ask not light to reveal the hate 

In the eyes of living and dead: 

"Light!" cry the wealthy early and late, 
The poor ask only for bread! 

BUCHANNAN. 



82 THE QUEEN OF THE DRAMA'S 

THE COUNTESS AND THE SERF. 

LOVE Act I.— Scene 2. 

Countess. Give o'er ! I hate the poet's argument ! 
'Tis falsehood — 'tis offence. A noble maid 
Stoop to a peasant ! — Ancestry, sire, dam, 
Kindred, and all, of perfect blood, despised 
For love ! 

Huon. The peasant, though of humble stock, 
High nature did enoble — 

Conn. What was that ? 
Mean you to justify it ? But go on. 

Huon. Not to offend. [Rises and comes forward. 

Coun. Offend ! — No fear of that, 
I hope, 'twixt thee and me ! I pray you, sir, 
To recollect yourself and be at ease, 
And as I bid you, do. Go on. 

Huon. Descent, 
You'll grant, is not alone nobility, 
Will you not? Never yet was line so long, 
But it beginning had ; and that was found 
In rarity of nature, giving one 
Advantage over many ; aptitude 
For arms, for counsel, so superlative 
As baffled all competitors, and made 
The many glad to follow him as guide 
Or safeguard. 

Not in descent alone, then, lies degree, 
Which from descent to nature may be traced, 
Its proper fount ? And that, which nature did, 
You'll grant she may be like to do again ; 
And in a very peasant, yea, a slave, 
Enlodge the worth that roots the noble tree. 

{The Countess eyes him. 
I trust I seem not bold, to argue so. 

Coun. Sir, when to me it matters what you seem, 
Make question on't. If you have more to say, 
Proceed — yet mark you how the poet mocks 
Himself the advocacy ; in the sequel 



LIFE AND RECITATIONS. 83 

His hero is a hind in masquerade ! 
He proves to be a lord. 

Huon. The poet sinned 
Against himself, in that ! He should have known 
A better trick, who had at hand his own 
Excelling nature to admonish him, 
Than the low cunning of the common craft, 
A hind, his hero, won the lady's love : 
He had worth enough for that ! Her heart was his. 
Wedlock joins nothing, if it joins not hearts. 
Marriage was never meant for coats of arms. 
Heraldry flourishes on metal, silk, 
Or wood. Examine as you will the blood, 
No painting on't is there? — as red, as warm, 
The peasant's as the noble's ! 

Coun. Dost thou know 
Thou speak' st to me ? 

Huon. 'Tis therefore so I speak. 

Coun. And know'st thy duty to me ? 

Huon. Yes. 

Coun. And see'st 
My station, and thy own ? 

Huon. I see my own. 

Coun. Not mine ? 

Huon. I cannot, for the fair 
O'ertopping height before. 

Coun. What height ? 

Huon. Thyself, 
That towerest 'bove thy station! — Pardon me! 
Oh, would'st thou set thy rank before thyself ? 
Wouldst thou be honored for thyself, or that ? 
Eank that excels its wearer, doth degrade ; 
Kiches impoverish, that divide respect. 

Kings from their thrones cast down, 
Have blessed their fate, that they were valued for 
Themselves, and not their stations, when some knee, 
That hardly bowed to them in plenitude, 
Has kissed the dust before them, stripped of all ! [this, 

Coun. \_Confused.~\ I nothing see that's relative in 



84 THE QUE EN OF THE DRAMA'S 

That bears upon the argument. 

Huon, Oh, much, 
Durst but my heart explain. 

Conn. Has thou a heart ? 
I thought thou wast a serf ; and, as a serf, 
Had'st thought and will none other than thy lord's, 
And so no heart — that is, no heart of thine own. 
But since thou say'st thou hast a heart, 'tis well, — 
Keep it a secret ; let me not suspect [smiles. 

What, were it e'en suspicion, were thy death. [Huon 
Sir, did I name a banquet to thee now, 
Thou lookedst so ? 

Huon. To die for thee were such. 

Coun. Sir? 

Huon. For his master oft a serf has died, 
And thought it sweet ; and may not, then, a serf 
Say, for his mistress 'twere a feast to die? 

Coun. Thou art presumptuous — very — so, no wonder 
If I misunderstood thee. Thou'dst do well 
To be thyself, and nothing more. 

Huon. Myself! [thou 

Coun. Why, art thou not a serf? What right hast 
To set thy person off with such a bearing? 
And move with such a gait? to give thy brow . 
The set of nobles, and thy tongue his phrase ? 
Thy betters' clothes sit fairer upon thee 
Than on themselves, "and they were made for them.' 
I have no patience with thee — can't abide thee! 
There are no bounds to thy ambition, none! 
How durst thou e'er adventure to bestride 
The war-horse — sitting him, that people say 
Thou, not the knight, appear'st his proper load? 
How durst thou touch the lance, the battle-axe, 
And wheel the flaming falchion round thy head, 
As thou would'st blaze the son of chivalry? 
I know! my father found thy aptitude, 
And humored it, to boast thee off! He may chance 
To rue it ; and no wonder if he should, 
If others' eyes see that they should not see, 



LIFE AND ttECl TA TIONS. 85 

Shown to them by his own. 

Huon. Oh, lady — 

Coun. What? 

Huon. Heard I aright? 

Coun. Aright — what heard'st thou, then? 
I would not think thee so presumptuous 
As through thy pride to misinterpret me. 
It were not for thy health, — yea, for thy life ! 
Beware, sir. It would not set my quiet blood, 
On haste for mischief to thee, rushing through 
My veins, did I believe! — Thou art not mad ; 
Knowing thy vanity, I aggravate it. 
Thou know'st 'twere shame, the lowest free- woman 
That follows in my train should think of thee! 

Huon. I know it, lady. 

Coun. That I meant to say, 
No more. Don't read such books to me again. 
I would you had not learned to read so well, 
I had been spared your annotations. 
For the future, no reply, when I remark, 
Hear, but don't speak — unless you're told — and then 
No more than you are told ; what makes the answer up, 
No syllable beyond. [Huon retires up, c. 

Enter Falconer with hawk, R. 
My Falconer ! So. [ Crosses, l. 

An hour I'll fly my hawk. 

Falconer. A noble bird, 
My lady, knows his bells, is proud of them. 

Coun. They are no portion of his excellence : 
It is his own ! 'Tis not by them he makes 
His ample wheel ; mounts up, and up, and up, 
In spiry rings, piercing the firmament, 
Till he o'ertops his prey ; then gives his stoop, 
More fleet and sure than ever arrow sped ! 
How nature fashioned him for his bold trade 
Gave him his stars of eyes to range abroad, 
His wings of glorious spread to mow the air, 
And breast of might to use them ! I delight 
To fly my hawk. The hawk's a glorious bird ; 
You may be useful, sir ; wait upon me. 
Obedient — yet a daring, dauntless bird! knowles. 



86 THE QUEEN OF THE DRAMA'S 



THE IDIOT LAD. 

The vesper hymn had died away. 

And the benison had been said, 
But one remained in church to pray, 

With a bow'd and reverent head. 
He could not frame in words the prayer 

Which reached the Throne of Grace, 
But the Love and Pity present there 

Saw the pleading of his face. 

In many curls hung his hair of gold, 

Bound a brow of pearly white ; 
His face was cast in a graceful mould, 

And his eyes were strangely bright. 
Gentle his white hand's touch — his smile 

Was tender and sweet and sad, 
Nought knew the whole of fraud and guile 

Of poor Dick, the idiot lad, 

" My boy," I said, " the tired sun 

Sinks low on the west sea's breast ; 
The shades which fall when the day is done 

Woo the weary earth to rest. 
In the vesper zephyr's gentle stir 

The sleepy tree-tops nod — 
Why wait you here?'' and he said, "Oh, sir, 

I would see the face of God ! 

"If the sun is so fair in his noon-day pride, 

And the moon in the silver night ; 
If the stars which by angels at eventide 

Are lighted can shine so bright ! 
If wood and dell, each flow'r and tree, 

And each grass of the graveyard sod, 
Are so full of beauty, oh, what must it be 

To look on the Face of God. 

"I have sought for the vision wide and near, 

And once, sir, I travell'd far 
To a mighty city long leagues from here, 



LIFE AND RECITATIONS. 87 

Where men of the great world are. 
But the faces I saw were false and mean, 

And cruel, and hard, and bad ; 
And none like the Face the saints have seen 

Saw poor Dick, the idiot lad. 

"In the night, sir, I wander away from home; 

Down the lanes and the fields I go — 
Thro' the silent arid lonely woods I roam, 

Patient, and praying, and slow. 
In the early morn on the hills I stand, 

Ere yet the mists have past; 
And I eagerly look o'er sea and land 

For the wonderful vision at last. 

"When the lightning's flash and the thunders roar, 

And the ships fly in from the gale ; 
When the waves beat high on the shrinking shore, 

And the fishing boats dare not sail ; 
I seek it still, in the storm and snow, 

Lest it may happen to be, 
That then it will please the great God to show 

His beautiful Face to me. 

"I seek it still when God's gleaming pledge 

In the bright'ning sky appears, 
And from tree and flower, and sparkling hedge 

Earth is weeping her happy tears ; 
For I sometimes think that I may behold, 

After yearning years of pain, 
The Face of my God in the quivering gold 

Of the sunshine that follows rain. 

"When the fishers return on the homeward tide, 

I ask them nothing but this : 
' Have you seen it out there on the ocean wide, 

Where the sky and the water kiss?' 
But they smile, and k Poor Dick' I hear them say, 

And they answer me always 'No.' 
So I think I must be still farther away 

Then even the fishing boats go." 



88 THE QUEEN OF THE DRAMA'S 

That night while the simple fisher-folk slept, 

From the dreams of the inighty free, 
Down to the beach the Idiot crept, 

And launched on the summer sea. 
And the boat sped on, and on, and on, 

From the ever-receding shore, 
And brighter and brighter the moonbeams shone, 

Which for him were to shine no more. 

Far out at sea his boat was found, 

And the tide, which bore to land 
The village fleet from the fishing ground, 

Laid softly upon the sand 
The white wet face of the idiot boy, 

Not yearning and wistful now, 
For perfect peace, and rest, and joy 

Were written upon his brow. 

In the poor lad's eyes seem'd still the glow 

Of a new and wondrous light : 
And down on the beach the women knelt low 

As they gaz'd on the holy sight. 
As the fishermen walk'd to the smiling dead, 

Softly their rough feet trod ; 
And bared was each head, as one slowly said, 

"He was look'd on the Face of God!" 

OVERTON. 



THE LOVERS. 

THE LADY OF LYONS Act II.— Scene 1. 

Mehiotte. You can be proud of your connection 
with one who owes his position to merit, — not birth. 

Pauline. Why, yes; but still 

Mel. Still what, Pauline? 

Pauline. There is something glorious in the Herit- 






LIFE AND REGIT A TI0N8. 89 

age of Command. A man who has ancestors is like a 
Representative of the Past. 

Mel. True ; but,like other representatives, nine times 
out of ten he is a silent member. Ah, Pauline! not to the 
Past, but to the Future, looks true nobility, and finds 
its blazon in posterity. {Leading her to seat, k. c. 

Pauline. You say this to please me, who have no 
ancestors ; but you, Prince, must be proud of so illus- 
trious a race! 

Mel. No, no ! I would not, were I fifty times a prince, 
be a pensioner on the Dead. I honor birth and ances- 
try when they are regarded as the incentives to exertion 
not the title-deeds to sloth ; I honor the laurels that 
overshadow the graves of our fathers ; — it is our fathers 
I emulate, when I desire that beneath the evergreen I 
myself have planted my own ashes may repose! Dear- 
est, could'st thou but see with my eyes ! 

Pauline. I cannot forego pride when I look on thee 
and think that thou lovest me. {Rises.) Sweet Prince, 
tell me again of thy palace by the Lake of Como ; it is 
so pleasant to hear of thy splendor since thou didst 
swear to me that they would be desolate without Pau- 
line ; and when thou describest them, it is with a mock- 
ing lip and a noble scorn, as if custom had made thee 
disdain greatness. [paint 

Mel. Nay, dearest, nay, if thou would'st have me 
The home to which, could Love fulfil its prayers, 
This hand would lead thee, listen! — A deep vale 
Shut out by Alpine hills from the rude world ; 
Near a clear lake, margined by fruits of gold 
And whispering myrtles; glassing softest skies 
As cloudless, save with rare and roseate shadows, 
As I would have thy fate ! 

Pauline. My own dear love ! 

Mel. A palace lifting to eternal summer 
Its marble walls, from out a glossy bower 
Of coolest foliage musical with birds, 
Whose songs should syllable thy name ! At noon 
We'd sit beneath the arching vines, and wonder 
Why Earth could be unhappy, while the Heavens 



90 THE QUEEN OF THE DRAMA'S 

Still left us youth and love ! We'd have no friends 

That were not lovers ; no ambition, save 

To excel them all in love ; we'd read no books 

That were not tales of love — that we might smile 

To think how poorly eloquence of words 

Translates the poetry of hearts like ours ! 

And when night came, amidst the breathless Heavens 

We'd guess what star should be our home when love 

Becomes immortal ; while the perfumed light 

Stole through the mists of alabaster lamps, 

And every air was heavy with the sighs 

Of orange-groves and music from sweet lutes, 

And murmurs of low fountains that gush forth 

I' the midst of roses ! — Dost thou like the picture ? 

Pauline. Oh, as the bee upon the flower, I hang 
Upon the honey of thy eloquent tongue ! 
Am I not blest 1 ? And if I love too wildly, 
Who would not love thee like Pauline? 

Mel. {Bitterly.) Oh, false one! 
It is the prince thou lovest, not the man ; 
If in the stead of luxury, and pomp, and power, 
I had painted poverty, toil, and care, 
Thou hadst found no honey on my tongue ; — Pauline, 
That is not love. {Crosses to b.) 

Pauline. Thou wrong'st me, cruel Prince! 
At first, in truth, I might not have been won, 
Save through the weakness of a flattered pride ; 
But now, — oh ! trust me, — could'st thou fall from power 
And sink 

Mel. As low as that poor gardener's son 
Who dared to lift his eyes to thee ? 

Pauline. Even then, 
Methinks thou would' st be only made more dear 
By the sweet thought that I could prove how deep 
Is woman's love! We are like the insects, caught 
By the glittering of a garish flame ; 
But, oh, the wings once scorch'd, the brightest star 
Lures us no more ; and by the fatal light 
We cling till death! 






LIFE AND RECITATIONS. 91 



TWO WOMEN. 

A grandma sits in her great armchair ; 

Balmy sweet is the soft spring air. 
Through the latticed, lilac-shadowed pane 

She looks to the orchard beyond the lane ; 
And she catches the gleam of a woman's dress, 

As it flutters about in the wind's caress. 
"That child is glad as the day is long — 

Her lover is coining, her life's a song ! " 
Up from the orchard's flowery bloom 

Floats fragrance faint to the darkening room 
"Where grandma dreams, till a tender grace 

And a softer light steals into her face. 
For once again she is young and fair, 

And twining roses in her hair. 
Once again, blithe as the lark above. 

She is only a girl, and a girl in love ! 
The years drop from her their weary pain; 

She is elapsed in her lover's arms again! 
The last faint glimmers of daylight die ; 

Stars tremble out of the purple sky ; 
Ere Dora flits up the garden path, 

Sadly afraid of grandma's wrath. 
With rose-red cheeks and flying hair, 

She nestles down by the old armchair. 
" Grandma, Dick says, may we — may — I — " 

The faltering voice grows strangely shy ; 
But Grandma presses the little hand: 

" Yes, my dearie, I understand ! 
"He may have you, darling! " Not all in vain 

Did grandma dream she was young again! 
She gently twists a shining curl; 

Ah, me ! the philosophy of a girl ! 
Take the world's treasures — its noblest, best — 

And love will outweigh all the rest! 
And through the casement the moonlight cold 

Streams on two heads — one gray, one gold. 



92 THE QUEEN OF THE DHAMA'S 

THE SUNRISE NEVER FAILED US YET. 

Upon the sadness of the sea, 

The sunset broods regretfully ; 

From the far lonely spaces slow 

"Withdraws the wistful after-glow 

So out of life the splendor dies, 

So darken all the happy skies, 

So gathers twilight, cold and stern, 

But overhead the planets burn. 

And up the east another day, 

Shall chase the bitter dawn away: 

What though our eyes with tears be wet! 

The sunrise never failed us yet. 

The blush of dawn may yet restore 

Our light, and hope, and joy once more; 

Sad soul, take comfort, nor forget 

That sunrise never failed us yet. 

CELIA THAXTER. 



THE NEGLECTED CHILD. 

I never was a favorite — 

My mother never smiled 
On me, with half the tenderness 

That blessed her fairer child. 
I've seen her kiss my sister's cheek, 

While fondled on her knee ; 
I've turned away to hide my tears, — 

There was no kiss for me ! 
And yet I strove to please with all 

My little store of sense ; 
I strove to please, and infancy 

Can rarely give offence. 
But when my artless efforts met 

A cold, ungentle check, 
I did not dare to throw myself, 

In tears, upon her neck. 
How blessed are the beautiful ! 

Love watches o'er their birth ; 
Oh ! beauty in my nursery 



LIFE AND RECITATIONS. 93 

I learned to know thy worth : — 
For even there, I often felt 

Forsaken and forlorn, . 
And wished — for others wished it too — 

I never had been born ! 

I'm sure I was affectionate, — 

But in my sister's face, 
There was a look of love that claimed 

A smile, or an embrace. 
But when I raised my lip, to meet 

The pressure children prize, 
None knew the feelings of my heart, — 

They spoke not in my eyes. 

But oh ! that heart too keenly felt 

The anguish of neglect ; 
I saw my sister's lovely form 

With gems and roses decked ; 
I did not covet them ; but oft, 

When wantonly reproved, 
I envied her the privilege 

Of being so beloved. 

But soon a time of triumph came — 

A time of sorrow too, — 
For sickness o'er my sister's form 

Her venomed mantle threw: — 
The features, once so beautiful, 

Now wore the hue of death ; 
And former friends shrank fearfully 

From her infectious breath. 

'Twas then, unwearied, day and night 

I watched beside her bed, 
And fearlessly upon my breast 

I pillowed her poor head. 
She lived ! — she loved me for my care ! 

My grief was at an end ; 
I was a lonely being once, 

But now I have a friend. 



94 THE QUEEN OF THE DRAMA'S 

RED RIDING- HOOD. 

On the wide lawn the snow lay deep, 
Ridged o'er with many a drifted heap, 
The wind that through the pine trees sung 
The naked elm boughs tossed and swung; 
While through the window, frosty-starred, 
Against the sunset purple barred, 
We saw the sombre crow flap by, 
The hawk's grey fleck along the sky, 
The crested blue- jay flitting swift, 
Erect, alert, his thick grey tail 
Set to the north wind like a sail. 

It came to pass our little lass, 
With flattened face against the glass, 
And eyes in which the tender dew 
Of pity shone, stood gazing through 
The narrow space her rosy lips 
Had melted from the frost's eclipse ; 
"Oh, see," she cried, -'the poor blue-jays ! 
What is that the black crow says ? 
The squirrel lifts his little legs 
Because he has no hands, and begs ; 
He's asking for my nuts, I know ; 
May I not feed them on the snow *? " 

Half lost within her boots, her head 
Warm sheltered in her hood of red, 
Her plaid skirt close about her drawn, 
She floundered down the wintry lawn ; 
Now struggling through the misty vail 
Blown round her by the shrieking gale ; 
Now sinking in a drift so low 
Her scarlet hood could scarcely show 
Its dash of color on the snow. 
She dropped for bird and beast forlorn 
Her little store of nuts and corn, 
And thus her timid guests bespoke : 
" Come, squirrel, from yon hollow oak — 



i 



LIFE AND RE CI TA TIONS. 95 

Come, black old crow — come, poor blue-jay, 
Before your supper is blown away ! 
Don't be afraid ; we all are good ; 
And I'm mamma's Eed Biding Hood ! " 

O Thou whose care is over all, 
Who heedest e'en the sparrow's fall, 
Keep in the little maiden's breast 
The pity which is now its guest ! 
Let not her cultured years make less 
The childhood charm of tenderness, 
But let her feel as well as now, 
Nor harder with her polish grow ! 
Unmoved by sentimental grief 
That wails along some printed leaf, 
But prompt with kindly word and deed 
To own the claims of all who need, 
Let the grown woman's self make good 
The promise of Red Riding Hood ! 

WHITTIEE. 



THE ROMAN MAIDEN IN LOVE. 

VZRGINIUS. Act I — Scene 2. 

Virginia. How is it with my heart ? I feel as one 
That has lost every thing, and just before 
Had nothing left to wish for ! He will cast 
Icilius off! — I never told it yet ; 
But take of me, thou gentle air, the secret — 
And ever after breathe more balmy sweet — 
I love Icilius ! Yes, I love Icilius ! 
My father'll cast him off! — not if Icilius 
Approve his honor. That he'll ever do ; 
He speaks, and looks, and moves, a thing of honor, 
Or honor never yet spoke, look'd or mov'd, 
Or was a thing on earth. O, come, Icilius ; 
Do but appear, and thou art vindicated. 

\Enter Icilius, and takes her hand. 

Icilius. Virginia! my Virginia! I am all 
Dissolv'd — o'erpower'd with the munificence 



96 THE QUE EN OF THE DRAMA'S 

Of this auspicious hour. I love thee, but 

To make thee happy ! If to make thee so 

Be bliss denied to me — lo, I release 

The gifted hand — that I would faster hold, 

Than wretches, bound for death, would cling to life— 

If thou would'st take it back — then take it back. 

Virginia. I take it back — -to give thee again ! 

Icil. O help me to a word will speak my bliss. 
Or I am beggar'd — No ! there is not one ! 
There cannot be ; for never man had bliss, 
Like mine to name. 

Virg. I'd help thee to 
A hundred words ; each one of which would far 
O'er-rate thy gain, and yet no single one 
Eate over high! 

Icil. Thou could'st not do it ! No ; 
Pick from each rarer pattern of thy sex • 
Her rarest charm, till thou hast every charm 
Of soul and body, that can blend in woman, 
I would out-paragon the paragon 
With thee. No ! I will not let thee win, 
On such a theme as this! 

Virg. Nor will I drop 
The controversy, that the vicher makes me 
The more I lose. 

Icil. My sweet Virginia. 
We do but lose and lose, and win and win ; 
" Playing for nothing but lose and win ; " her. 

Then tell us stop the game : and thus I stop it. [Kisses 

KNOWLES. 



TO MARY. 

There are some who may shine as thee, Mary ! 
And many more frank and free, 
And a few as fair ; 
But the summer air 
Is not more sweet to me, Mary ! 

CORNWALL. 



LIFE AND RECITATIONS. 97 



RECALLED BY A TOUCH. 

I met her, she was thin and cold ; 

She stooped, and trod with tottering feet; 
The hair was gray that once was gold, 

The voice was harsh that once was sweet 
Her hands were wrinkled, and her eyes, 

Kobbed of the girlish light of joy, 
Were dim ; I felt a sad surprise 

That I had loved her when a boy. 

But yet a something in her air 

Restored me to the vanished time ; 
My heart grew young, and seemed to wear 

The brightness of my youthful prime, 
I took her withered hand in mine — 

Its touch recalled a ghost of joy — 
I kissed it with a reverent sigh, 

For I had loved her when a boy. 

CHARLOTTE PEERY. 



THE WIFE'S DESPAIR. 

EVADNE. Act II.— Scene 1. 

Evadne. An angel would vainly plead my cause 
Within Vicentio's heart— therefore, my lord, 
I have no intent to interrupt the rite 
That makes that lady yours ; but I am come 
Thus breathless as you see me — would to heav'n 
I could be tearless too ! 
Hear all the vengeance I intend. I'll tell you. 



98 THE QUEEN OF THE DRAMA'S 

May you be happy with that happier maid 

That never could have loved you more than I do. 

But may deserve you better ! May your days, 

Like a long stormless summer, glide away, 

And peace and trust be with you ! 

And when at last you close your gentle lives, 

Blameless as they were blessed, may you fall 

Into the grave as softly as the leaves 

Of two sweet roses on an autumn eve, 

Beneath the soft sighs of the western wind; 

For myself [sobbing] I will but pray 

The maker of the lonely beds of peace 

To open one of his deep hollow ones, 

Where misery goes to sleep, and let me in ; 

If ever you chance to pass beside my grave, 

I am sure you'll not refuse a little sigh, 

And if with my friend (I still will call her so), 

My friend, Olivia, chide you, pr'ythee tell her 

Not to be jealous of me in my grave. 

SHELL. 



THE MAID OF THE INN. 

Who is she, the poor maniac, whose wildly-fixed eyes 
Seem a heart overcharged to express! 

She weeps not, yet often and deeply she sighs ; 

She never complains, but her silence implies 
The composure of settled distress. 

No aid, no compassion the maniac will seek ; 

Cold and hunger awake not her care ; 
Through the rags do the winds of the winter blow 

bleak 
On her poor withered bosom, half bare ; and her cheek 

Has the deadly pale hue of despair. 



rJFH AND RECITATIONS. 99 

Yet cheerful and happy, not distant the day, 

Poor Mary, the maniac has been ; 
The traveler remembers, who journeyed this way, 
No damsel so lovely, no damsel so gay, 

As Mary, the maid of the inn. 

Her cheerful address filled the guests with delight, 

As she welcomed them in with a smile ; 
Her heart was a stranger to childish affright, 
And Mary would walk by the abbey at night, 

When the wind whistled down the dark aisle. 

She loved, and young Richard had settled the day, 

And she hoped to be happy for life ; 
But Richard was idle and worthless, and they 
Who knew her, would pity poor Mary, and say 

That she was too good for his wife. 

'Twas in Autumn, and stormy and dark was the night 

And fast were the windows and door; 
Two guests were enjoying the fire that burnt bright, 
And, smoking in silence, with tranquil delight. 
They listened to hear the wind roar. 

" 'Tis pleasant," cried one, " seated by the fireside, 

To hear the wind whistle without." 
"A fine night in the abbey," his comrade replied, 
"Methinks a man's courage would now be well tried, 

Who should wander the ruins about. 

" I myself, like a schoolboy, should tremble to hear 

The hoarse ivy shake over my head ; 
And could fancy I saw, half persuaded by fear, 
Some icy old abbot's white spirit appear, 

For this wind might awaken the dead." 

" I'll wager a dinner," the other one cried, 
That Mary would venture there now." 
"Then wager and lose," with a sneer he replied, 



100 THE QUE EN OF THE DRAMA'S 

" I'll warrant she'd fancy a ghost by her side, 
And faint if she saw a white cow." 

"Will Mary this charge on her courage allow?" 

His companion exclaimed with a smile ; 
" I shall win, for I know she will venture there now, 
And earn a new bonnet by bringing a bough 
From the alder that grows in the aisle." 

With fearless good humor did Mary comply, 

And her way to the abbey she bent ; 
The night it was dark, and the wind it was high, 
And as hollowly howling it crept through the sky, 
She shivered with cold as she went. 

O'er the path, so well known, proceeded the maid, 

Where the abbey rose dim on the sight ; 
Through the gateway she entered, she felt not afraid, 
Yet the ruins were lonely and wild, and their shade 
Seemed to deepen the gloom of the night. 

All around her was silent, save when the rude blast 

Howled dismally round the old pile ; 
Over weed-covered fragments still fearless she passed, 
And arrived at the innermost ruin at last, 
Where the alder-tree grows in the aisle. 

Well pleased did she reach it, and quickly drew near, 

And hastily gathered the bough — 
When the sound of a voice seemed to rise on her ear : 
She paused, and she listened, all eager to hear, 

And her heart panted fearfully now ! 

The wind blew, the hoarse ivy shook over her head ; — 

She listened ; — naught else could she hear ; 
The wind ceased, her heart sank in her bosom with 

dread, 
For she heard in the ruins — distinctly — the tread 
Of footsteps approaching her near. 



LIFE A WD RECITA TIONS. 101 

Behind a wide column, half breathless with fear, 

She crept to conceal herself there ; 
That instant the moon o'er a dark cloud shone clear, 
And she saw in the moonlight two ruffians appear, 

And between them — a corpse did they bear! 

Then Mary could feel her heart's-blood cardie cold! 

Again the rough wind hurried by — 
It blew off the hat of the one, and behold ! 
Even close to the feet of poor Mary it rolled ! — 

She fell — and expected to die! 

" Curse the hat ! " he exclaims ; "Nay come on and first 
hide 

The dead body," his comrade replies — 
She beheld them in safety pass on by her side, 
She seizes the hat, fear her courage supplied, 

And fast through the abbey -she flies. 

She ran with wild speed, she rushed in at the door, 

She gazed horribly eager around ; 
Then her limbs could support their faint burden no 

more, 
And exhausted and breathless she sunk on the floor,! 

Unable to utter a sound. 

Ere yet her pale lips could the story impart, 
For a moment the hat met her view ; — 

For, Oh God ! what cold horror thrilled through her 
heart, 

Her eyes from that object convulsively start, 
When the name of her Eichard she knew. 

Where the old abbey stands, on the common hard by, 

His gibbet is now to be seen ; 
Not far from the inn it engages the eye, 
The traveler beholds it, and thinks, with a sigh, 

Of poor Mary, the maid of the inn. 

SOUTHEY. 






102 THE QUEEN OF THE DRAMA'S 

THE SEASONS. 

The Spring-time, O the Spring-time! 

Who does not know it well ? 
When the little birds begin to build, 

And the buds begin to swell. 
When the sun with the clouds plays hide-and-seek, 

And the lambs are bucking and bleating, 
And the color mounts to the maiden's cheek, 

And the cuckoo scatters greeting ; 

In the Spring-time, joyous Spring-time ! 

The Summer, O the Summer! 

Who does not know it well ? 
When the ring-doves coo the long day through. 

And the bee refills his cell. 
When the swish of the mower is heard at morn, 

And we all in the woods go roaming, 
And waiting is over, and love is born, 

And shy lips meet in the gloaming ; 

In the Summer, luscious Summer ! 

The Autumn, O the Autumn! 

Who does not know it well ? 
When the leaf turns brown, and the masts drops down, 

And the chestnut splits its shell. 
When we muse o'er the days that have gone before, 

And the days that will follow after, 
When the grain lies deep on the winnowing-floor, 

And the plump gourd hangs from the rafter ; 
In the Autumn, mellow Autumn! 

The Winter, O the Winter! 

Who does not know it well? 
When, day after day, the fields stretch gray, 

And the peewit wails on the fell. 
When we close up the crannies and shut out the cold, 

And the wind sounds hoarse and hollow, 
And our dead loves sleep in the churchyard mould, 

And we pray that we soon may follow; 
In the Winter, mournful Winter! 

AUSTIN. 



LIFE AND RECITATIONS. 103 

THE RELIEF OF LUCKNOW. 

Oh, that last day in Lucknow fort! 

We knew that it was the last: 
The enemy's lines had crept surely in, 

And the end was coming fast. 

To yield to that foe meant worse than death, 

And the men and we all worked on ; 
It was one day more of smoke and roar, 

And then it would all be done. 

There was one of us, a coporal's wife, 

A fair youog, gentle thing, 
Wasted Aiith fever and with siege, 

And her mind was wandering. 

She lay on the ground, in her Scottish plaid, 

And I took her head on my knee ; 
"When my father comes home frae the pleugh," she 
said, 

"Oh, please then waken me! " 

She slept like a child on her father's floor, 
In the flecking of the woodbine shade, 

When the house-dog sprawls by the half-open door, 
And the mother's wheel is stayed. 

It was smoke and roar and powder stench, 

And hopeless waiting death ; 
But the soldier's wife, like a full-tired child, 

Seemed scarce to draw her breath. 

I sank to sleep, and I had my dream 

Of an English village lane, 
And wall and garden, till a sudden scream 

Brought me back to the roar again. 

There Jessie Brown stood listening ; 

And then a broad gladness broke 
All over her face, and she took my hand 

And drew me near, and spoke: 



104 THE QUERN OF THE DRAMA'S 

" The Highlanders ! Oh ! dinna ye hear 

The slogan far awa"? 
The Macgregor's ! Ah ! I ken it weel ; 

It is the grandest of them a'. 

"God bless the bonny Highlanders! 

We're saved! we're saved!" she cried; 
And fell on her knees! and thanks to God 

Poured forth like a full flood-tide. 

Along the battery line her cry 

Had fallen among the men ; 
And they started, for they were to die, 

Was life so near them, then ? 

Then listened for life ; and the rattling fire 

Far off, and the far-off roar 
Were all ; and the colonel shook his head, 

And they turned to their guns once more. 

Then Jessie said, "The slogan's dune: 

But can ye no hear them noo? 
The Campbells are coram ! It is nae a dream 

Our succors hae broken through! " 

We heard the roar and rattle afar, 

But the pipers we could not hear ; 
. So the men plied their work of hopeless war 
And knew that the end was near. 

It was not long ere it must be heard, 

A shrilling, ceaseless sound: 
It was no noise of the strife afar 

Or the sappers under ground. 

It was the pipe of the Highlanders, 

And now they played "Auld Lang Syne;" 

It came to our men like the voice of God, 
And they shouted along the line. 



LIFE AND RECITATIONS. 105 

And they wept and shook each other's hands, 

And the women sobbed in a crowd, 
And every one knelt down where we stood, 

And we all thanked God aloud. 

That happy day when we welcomed them in 

Our men put Jessie first ; 
And the general took her hand, and cheers 

From the men like a volley burst. 

And the pipers' ribbons and tartan streamed, 
Marching round and I'ound our line ; 

And our joyful cheers were broken with tears, 
As the pipers played " Auld Lang Syne." 

LOWELL. 



OPHELIA'S MAD SCENE. 

HAMLET Act IV.— Scene 5. 

Enter Ophelia, fantastically dressed, and bedecked with straws 
and flowers, having gone mad over the death of her old 
father. 

Laertes. O, rose of May ! 
Dear maid, kind sister, sweet Ophelia ! — 
O Heavens ! is't possible, a young maid's wits 
Should be as mortal as an old man's life ? 
Nature is fine in love : and, where 'tis fine, 
It sends some precious instance of itself 
After the thing it loves. 
Ophelia, sings : 
"They bore him barefaced on the bier 5 

Hey non nonny, nonny hey nonny: 
And on his grave rained many a tear ; " 
Fare you well, my dove ! 

Laer. Had'st thou thy wits and didst persuade re- 
venge, 
It could not move thus. 



106 THE qUEEN OF THE BE AM A' 8 

Oph. You must sing, " Down a- down, and you call 
him a-down-a." O, how the wheel becomes it ! It is 
the false steward, that stole his master's daughter. 

Laer. This nothing's more than matter. 

Oph. There's rosemary, that's for remembrance ; 
pray you, love, remember ; and there is pansies, that's 
for thoughts. 

Laer. A document in madness ; thoughts and re- 
membrance fitted. 

Oph. There's fennel for you, and columbines ; there's 
rue for you ; and here's some for me : — we may eall it 
herb of grace o' Sundays : — you may wear your rue 
with a difference. — There's a daisy: — I would give you 
some violets ; but they withered all, when my father 
died: — they say he made a good end, — ({sings:) 
" For bonny sweet Eobin is all my joy." 

Laer. Thought and affliction, passion, hell itself, 
She turns to favor and to prettiness. 

Oph., (sings) "And will he not come again?" 
And for all Christian souls ! I pray God. God be wi' 
you! 

SHAKESPEARE. 



ONE IN BLUE AND ONE IN GRAY. 

Each thin hand resting on a grave 

Her lips apart in prayer, 
A mother knelt and left her tears 

Upon the violets there. 
O'er many a rood of vale and lawn, 

Of hill and forest gloom, 
The reaper Death had revelled in 

His fearful harvest home. 
The last red summer's sun had shown 

Upon a fruitless fray — 
From yonder forest charged the blue, 

Down yonder slope the grey. 



LIFE AND RECITA T.IONS. 107 

The hush of death was on the scene, 

And sunset o'er the dead, 
In that oppressive stillness 

A pall of glory spread. 
I know not, dare not question how 

I met the ghastly glare 
Of each upturned and stir! ess face 

That shrunk and whitened there. * 
I knew my noble boys had stood 

Through all that withering day — 
I knew that Willie wore the blue, 

That Harry wore the gray. 

I thought of Willie's clear blue eye, 

His wavy hair of gold, 
That clustered on a fearless brow 

Of purest Saxon mould ; 
Of Harry, with his raven locks, 

And eagle glance of pride ; 
Of how they clasped each other's hand 

And left their mother's side : 
How hand in hand they bore my prayer 

And blessings on the way — 
A noble heart beneath the blue, 

Another 'neath the gray. 

The dead, with white and folded hands, 

That hushed our village homes, 
I've seen laid calmly, tenderly, 

Within their darkened rooms ; 
But there I saw distorted limbs, 

And many an eye a-glare, 
In the soft purple twilight of 

The thunder-smitten air ; 
Along the slope and on the sward 

In ghastly ranks they lay, 
And there was blood upon the blue, 

And blood upon the gray. 

I looked and saw his blood, and his ; 
A swift and vivid dream 



108 THE QUEEN OF Til hi DMAMA'S 

Of blended years flashed o'er me, when, 

Like some cold shadow, came 
A blindness of the eye and brain — 

The same that seizes one 
When men are smitten suddenly 

Who overstare the sun; 
And while blurred with the sudden stroke 

That swept my soul, I lay — 
They buried Willie in his blue, 

And Harry in his gray. 

The shadows fall upon their graves ; 

They fall upon my heart ; 
And through the twilight of my soul 

Like dew the tears will start — 
The starlight comes so silently, 

And lingers where they rest ; 
So hope's revealing starlight sinks 

And shines within my breast. 
They ask not there where yonder heaven 

Smiles with eternal day, 
Why Willie wore the loyal blue — 

Why Harry wore the gray. 



WARD. 



THE FAIR ADVOCATE. 

MERCHANT OF VENICE Act IV.— Scene 1. 

Enter Portia. 

Duke. You are welcome: take your place. 
Are you acquainted with the difference 
That holds this present question in the court? 

Portia. I am informed thoroughly of the cause. 
Which is the merchant here, and which the Jew? 

Duke. Antonia and old Shylock, both stand forth 



I 



LIFE AND REC1 TA TIONS. 109 

Por. Is your name Shylock? 

Shyloek. Shylock is my name. 

For. Of a strange nature is the suit you follow ; 
Yet in such rule, that the Venetian law 
Cannot impugn you, as you do proceed — 
Then must the Jew be merciful. 

Shy. On what compulsion must I? tell me that. 

Por. The quality of mercy is not strain'd; 
It droppeth, as the gentle rain from heaven, 
Upon the place beneath; it is twice bless'd — 
It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes ; 
'Tis mightiest in the mightiest : it becomes 
The throned monarch better than his crown ; 
His sceptre shows the force of temporal power, 
The attribute to awe and majesty, 
Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings ; 
But mercy is above this sceptred sway, 
It is enthroned in the hearts of kings, 
It is an attribute to God himself; 
And earthly power doth then show likest God's 
When mercy seasons justice. Therefore, Jew, 
Though justice be thy plea, consider this, — 
That in the course of justice, none of us 
Should see salvation : we do pray for mercy ; 
And that same prayer doth teach us all to render 
The deeds of mercy. I have spoke thus much 
To mitigate the justice of thy plea: 
Which if though follow, this strict court of Venice 
Must needs give sentence 'gainst the merchant there. 

Shy. My deeds upon my head ! I crave the law, 
The penalty and forfeit of my bond. 
We trifle time ; I pray thee, pursue sentence. 

Por. A pound of that same merchant's flesh is thine ; 
The court awards it, and the law doth give it. 

Shy. Most rightful judge! 

Por. And you must cut this flesh from off his breast ; 
The law allows it and the court awards it. 

Shy. Most learned judge ; — A sentence ; come pre- 
pare. 



110 THE QUEEN OF THE DRAMA'S 

l^or. Tarry a little: — there is something else — 
This bond doth give thee here no jot of blood; 
The words expressly are, a pound of flesh: 
Take then thy bond, take thou thy pound of flesh ; 
But in the cutting of it, if thou dost shed 
One drop of Christian blood, thy lands and goods 
Are by the laws of Venice, confiscate 
Unto the state of Venice. 

Shy. Is that the law 1 ? 

Por. Thyself shall see the act: 
Why doth the Jew pause? take thy forfeiture. 

Shy. Give me my principal, and let me go. 

Por. He hath refused it in the open court; 
He shall have merely justice, and his bond. 

Shy. Shall I not have barely my principal? 

Por. Thou shalt have nothing but the forfeiture, 
To be so taken at thy peril, Jew. 

Shy. Why then the devil give him good of it ! 
I'll stay no longer question. 

Por. Tarry, Jew ; 
The law hath yet another hold on you. 
It is enacted in the laws of Venice, — 
If it be proved against an alien, 
That by direct or indirect attempts, 
He seek the life of any citizen, 
The party 'gainst the which he doth contrive, 
Shall seize one half his goods : the other half 
Comes to the privy coffer of the state ; 
And the offender's life lies in the mercy 
Of the duke only, 'gainst all other voice. 
In which predicament I say, thou stand'st. 
Down therefore, and beg mercy of the duke. 

Duke. That thou shalt see the difference of our spirit, 
I pardon thee thy life, before thou ask it ; 
For half thy wealth, it is Antonio's ; 
The other half comes to the general state, 
Which humbleness may drive unto a fine. 

SHAKESPEARE. 



LIFE AND RECITATIONS. Ill 

THE SLEEP-WALKING SCENE. 

MACBETH Act V.— Scene 1. 

Enter a Doctor and a Gentlewoman. 
Doctor. I have two nights watched with you, but can 
perceive no truth in your report. When was it she 
last walked? 

Gentlewoman. Since his majesty went into the field, 
I have seen her rise from her bed, throw her night- 
gown upon her, unlock her closet, take forth paper, fold 
it, write upon it, read it, afterwards seal it, and again 
return to bed ; yet all this while in a most fast sleep. 

Enter Lady Macbeth, with a taper. 
Lo you, here she comes! This is her very guise ; and 
upon my life, fast asleep. Observe her; stand close. 

Doct. You see, her eyes are open. 

Gent. Ay, but their sense is shut. 

Doct. What is it she does now 1 ? Look, how she rubs 
her hands. 

Gent. It is an accustomed action with her to seem 
thus washing her hands ; I have known her to continue 
in this a quarter of an hour. 

Lady M. Yet here's a spot. 

Doct. Hark ! she speaks ; I will set down what comes 
from her, to satisfy my remembrance the more strongly. 

Lady M. Out, damned spot! out, I say. One! Two! 
why then 'tis time to do't : — Hell is murky ; — Fie, my 
lord, fie, a soldier and afear'd? What need we fear 
who knows it, when none can call our power to account? 
Yet who would have thought the old man to have so 
much blood in him? 

Doct. Do you mark that? 

Lady M. The thane of Fife had a wife : Where is 
she now? What, will these hands ne'er be clean? No 
more o' that, my lord, no more o' that; you mar all 
with this starting. Here's the smell of the blood still : 
all the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little 
hand. Oh! oh! oh! 

SHAKESPEARE. 



112 THE QUEEN OF THE DRAMA'S 

THE PENITENT'S LAMENTATION. 

JANE SHORE Act V.— Scene 2. 

Enter Jane Shore, her hair hanging loose on her shoulders, 
and hare-footed. 

Jane Shore. Yet, yet endure, nor murmur, O my soul ! 
For care uot thy transgressions great and numberless? 
Do they not cover thee like rising floods, 
And press thee like a weight of waters down? 
Wait then with patience, till the circling"hours 
Shall bring the time of thy appointed rest, 
And lay thee down to death. 
And hark ! methinks the roar of them pursuing, 
Sinks like the murmurs of a falling wind, 
And softens into silence. Does revenge 
And malice then grow weary and forsake me? 
My guards, too, that observ'd me still so close, 
Tire in the task of their inhuman office 
And loiter far behind. Alas! I faint, 
My spirits fail at once. The time has been 
When this unfriendly door, that bars my passage, 
Flew wide, and almost leap'd from off its hinges, 
To give me entrance here : when this good house 
Has poured forth all its dwellers to receive me ; 
When my approaches made a little holiday, 
And every face was dressed in smiles to meet me ; 
But now 'tis otherwise ; and those who bless'd me, 
Now curse me to my face. Why should I wander, 
Stray further on, for I can die ev'n here? 

[She sits down. 
I can no more; [lies dovm.~] receive me, thou cold 

earth, 
Thou common parent, take me to thy bosom, 
And let me rest with thee. 

Enter Behnour. 
• Belmour. Upon the ground ! 
Thy miseries can never lay thee lower. 
Look up, thou poor afflicted one! thou mourner, 
Whom none has comforted ! Be of courage ; — 
Your husband lives! 'tis he, my worthiest friend. 



LIFE AND RECITATIONS. 113 

Enter Shore. 

Jane S. Still art thou there? still dost thou hover 
round me? 
Oh, save me, Belmour, from his angry shade ! 

Bel. 'Tis he himself! he lives! look up: — 

Jane S. I dare not. 
Oh! that my eyes could shut him out for ever. 

Shore. Am I so hateful then, so deadly to thee, 
To blast thy eyes with horror? Since I am grown 
A burden to the world, myself and thee, 
Would I had ne'er survived to see thee more. 

Jane S. Oh ! thou most injur'd — dost thou live in- 
deed? 
Forgive me ! — but forgive me ! 

Shore. Be witness for me, ye celestial host, 
Such mercy and such pardon as my soul 
Accords to thee, and begs of heav'n to show thee, 
May such befall me, at my latest hour, 
And make my portion blest or curst for ever. 

Jane S. Then all is well, and I shall sleep in peace ; — 
'Tis very dark, and I have lost you now: — 
Was there not something I would have bequeath'd you? 
But I have nothing left me to bestow, 
Nothing but one sad sigh. O ! mercy, heavn ! [Dies. 

ROWE. 



THREE PRAYERS. 

Beneath a cross, beyond the town, 

Before a shrine for sorrows made, 
Three simple maidens knelt them down, 

And from their hearts devoutly pray'd. 
One, dreaming of created things — 

The purple sea, the perfect sky, 
Bright, happy birds with painted wings, 

Glad buds that bloom before they die, 
The waving woods — the scented air 

Clung to her heart, and through her sighs 
Was heard the gentle maiden's pray'r: 



114 THE QUEEN OF THE DRAMA'S 

"Oh, give me beauty for my prize! " 
A bidden furnace seemed to glow 

Witbin tbe second maiden's breast. 
Sbe beard tbe stirring trumpet blow, 

Sbe saw tbe warrior's plume and crest; 
Ambition dazzled in ber eyes 

Tbat life's reward — a deatbless name, 
Tben from ber beart came stifled cries : 

"If I may live, ob! give me fame." 
Tbe tbird fair maiden knelt apart ; 

Her eyes — a beaven starr'd witb tears, 
Her wbite arms folded on ber beart, 

Sbe faced a mystery of years. 
A sudden rapture seemed to lift 

Her very soul to beav'n above : 
"Be mine," sbe pray'd, "tins priceless gift: 

" Let me be loved by one I love ! " 

CLEMENT SCOTT. 



A QUEEN'S DEFENCE. 

WINTER'S TALE Act III.— Scene 2. 

Officer ; "Hermione, queen to tbe wortby Leontes, 
king of Sicilia, tbou art here accused and arraigned of 
higb treason, in committing adultery witb Polixenes, 
king of Bobemia ; and conspiring witb Camillo to take 
away the life of our sovereign lord tbe king, tby royal 
husband ; tbe pretence whereof being by circumstances 
partly laid open, tbou, Hermione, contrary to tbe faith 
and allegiance of a true subject, didst counsel and aid 
them, for their better safety, to fly away by night." 

Hermione. Since what I am to say, must be but that 
"Which contradicts my accusation ; and 
The testimony on my part, no other 
But what comes from myself: it shall scarce boot me 
To say, Not guilty ; mine integrity 



LIFE AND RECITATIONS. HI 

Being counted falsehood, shall, as I express it, 
Be so received. But thus, — If powers divine 
Behold our human actions as they do, 
I doubt not then, but innocence shall make 
False accusation blush, and tyranny- 
Tremble at patience. — You, my lord, best know 
(Who least will seem to do so) my past life 
Hath been as continent, as chaste, as true, 
As I am now unhappy; which is more 
Than history can pattern, though devised, 
And play'd, to take spectators: For behold me, 
A moiety of the king, a great king's daughter, 
The mother to a hopeful prince, — here standing, 
To prate and talk for life, and honor, 'fore 
Who please to come and hear. For life, I prize it 
As I weigh grief, which I would spare : for honor, 
'Tis a derivative from me to mine, 
And only that I stand for. I appeal 
To your own conscience, sir, before Polixenes 
Came to your court, how I was in your grace, 
How merited to be so ; since he came, 
With what encounter so uncurrent I 
Have strain'd to appear thus : if one jot beyond 
The bound of honor, or in act or will 
That way inclining, hardened be the hearts 
Of all that hear me, and my near'st of kin 
Cry, Fie upon my grave ! 

SHAKESPEARE. 



SOMEBODY'S MOTHER. 

The woman was old, and ragged and gray, 
And bent with the chill of a winter's day ; 
The streets were white with a recent snow, 
And the woman's feet with age were slow. 

At the crowded crossing she waited long, 
Jostled aside by the careless throng 
Of human beings who passed her by, 
Unheeding the glance of her anxious eye. 



HG THE QUEEN OF THE DRAMA'S 

Down the street with laughter and shout, 
Glad in the freedom of " school is out, " 
Came happy boys, like a flock of sheep, 
Hailing the snow piled white and deep ; 
Past the woman, so old and gray, 
Hasten the children on their way. 

None offered a helping hand to her, 

So weak and timid, afraid to stir, 

Lest the carriage wheels or the horses' feet 

Should trample her down in the slippery street. 

At last came out of the merry troop 
The gayest boy of all the group ; 
He paused beside her, and whispered low, 
" I'll help you across, if you wish to go." 

Her aged hand on his strong young arm 
She placed, and so without hurt or harm, 
He guided the trembling feet along, 
Proud that his own were young and strong ; 
Then back again to his friends he went, 
His young heart happy and well content. 

" She's somebody's mother, boys, you know, 
For all she's aged, and poor and slow ; 
And some one, some time, may lend a hand 
To help my mother — you understand ? — 
If ever she's poor, and old and grey, 
And her own dear boy so far away." 

" Somebody's mother bowed low her head, 
In her home that night, and the prayer she said 
Was : " God be kind to that noble boy, 
Who is somebody's son and pride and joy." 

Faint was the voice, and worn and weak, 
But heaven lists when its chosen speak ; 
Angels caught the faltering word, 
And " Somebody's Mother's " prayer was heard. 

Maky D. Brine. 



LIFE AND RECITATIONS. 117 

CHRISTMAS MEMORIES. 

The Christmas bells across the snow 

Are ringing out good-will to men ; 
Away the merry skaters go 

Across the fields, along the fen ; 
God's wind of peace and love has blown 

The clouds from sorrow-stricken skies : 
Yet. I am sitting here alone 

With my old Christmas Memories ! 

Cease Christmas chime ! that wildly rings 

The knell of man's delayed desire ! 
She at the piano touch'd the strings, 

Whilst I sat dreaming by the fire. 
'Tis mystical when souls entwine, 

When sympathetic longings blend — 
She came, and placed her hand in mine, 

And then she whispered, " Be my friend I " 

Who could that longing look resist! 

The blue of those Madonna eyes ; 
The hair — the parted lips unkist ; 

The depth of all her broken sighs ? 
I took her hand — nor seemed to trace 

A storm on such a summer sea. 
Oh, God ! I see her haunting face 

That pleaded, " Be a friend to me !" 

One night the books were cast aside, 

The poem hush'd that I had read, 
We only heard the wind outside, 

The firelight touch'd her golden head. 
We were alone ! none other ! none ! 

Have mercy on me, God above ! 
She weeping, said : " What have you done ? 

This is not friendship ; it is love ! " 

Yes : it was love, untamed and wild 

That through our hearts and pulses ran, 
The first affection of a child, 



118 THE QUEEN OF THE DRAMA'S 

The last great passion of a man ! 
No love like this was ever born 

To touch my tears, to cloud my sight; 
She was my waking thought at morn, 

She was my parting prayer at night. 

Yes ! it was love, so pure, that I 

Can feel it dim my eyelids yet : 
It made our spring a memory, 

Our summer one profound regret ; 
We only met to love the more 

Beneath the blossom-covered tree, 
We loved in silence on the shore, 

And speechless, looking out to sea ! 

Cold Christmas chimes ! why ceaseless ring, 

Across the snow, your endless knell ; 
It whispers of remembered spring 

And tolls for our supreme farewell? 
Oh ! winged love ! for love is wild 

And has been since the world began, 
It bears away the loving child 

And leaves alone the thinking man ! 

So, merry skaters, hand in hand, 

Laugh on until the sun has set ; 
Together you will find love's land, 

Then dream together — and forget. 
Away ! you lovers ! off you go 

Across the fields, along the fen ; 
For Christmas bells, above the snow, 

Are ringing out good will to men ! 

— U Envoi! — 

But when you see old friends depart 
And find that love is sweet — but dies ; 

Pray God that all your life and heart 
Be free from Christmas memories ! 

CLEMENT SCOTT. 






LIFE AND RKG1 TA TIONS. 119 

THE DEATH OF EGYPT'S QUEEN. 

ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA Act V.— Scene 2. 

Cleopatra. Give me my robe, put on my crown; I 
have Immortal longings in me: Now no more 
The juice of Egypt's grape shall moist this lip: — 
Yare, yare, good Iras; quick. — Methinks I hear 
Antony call ; I see him rouse himself 
To praise my noble act ; I hear him mock 
The luck of Csesar, which the gods give men 
To excuse their after wrath : Husband, I come: 
Now to that name my courage prove my title ! 
I am fire and air ; my other elements 
I give to baser life. — So, — have you done 1 
Come, then, and take the last warmth of my lips. 
Farewell, kind Charmian ! — Iras, long farewell ! 
[Kisses her maids, Charmian arorflras — the latter falls 

and dies. 
Have I the aspick in my lips ? Dost fall ? 
If thou and nature can so gently part, 
The stroke of death is as a lover's pinch, 
Which hurts, and is desired. Dost thou lie still ? 
If thus thou vanishest, thou tell'st the world 
It is not worth leave-taking. [may say, 

Charmian. Dissolve, thick cloud and rain ; that I 
The gods themselves do weep ! 

Cleo. This proves me base : 
If she first meet the curled Antony, 
He'll make demand of her : and spend that kiss 
Which is my heaven to have. Come, mortal wretch, 

[To the asp, which she applies to her breast. 
With thy sharp teeth this knot intrinsicate 
Of life at once untie , poor venomous fool, 
Be angry and despatch. O, couldst thou speak ! 
That I might hear thee call great Csesar, ass 
Unpolicied ! 

Char. O eastern star ! Cleo. Peace, peace ! 

Dost thou not see my baby at my breast, 
That sucks the nurse asleep ? 



120 THE QUEEN OF THE DRAMA'S 

Char. O, break! O, break! 

( Ueo. As sweet as balm, as soft as air, as gentle, — 
Antony ! — Nay, I will take thee too : [Applying another 

asp. 
What should I stay — [Falls on a bed and dies. 

SHAKESPEARE. 

♦ 

"PERSEVERE." 

Robert, the Bruce, in the dungeon stood 

Waiting the hour of doom : 
Behind him the Palace of Holyrood, 

Before him, a nameless tomb, 
And the foam on his lip was flecked with red, 

As away to the past his memory sped, 
Upcalling the day of his great renown 

W T hen he won and he wore the Scottish crown; 
Yet come there shadow, or come there shine, 

The spider is spinning his thread so fine. 
" I have sat on the royal seat of Scone," 

He muttered below his breath ; 
"It's a luckless change, from a kingly throne 

To a felon's shameful death." 
And he clenched his hand in his despair, 

And he struck at the shapes that were gathered there 
Pacing his cell in impatient rage, 

As a new-caught lion paces his cage ; 
But come there shadow or come there shine. 

The spider is spinning his web so fine. 
" Oh, were it my fate to yield up my life 

At the head of my liegemen all, 
In the foremost shock of the battle-strife 

Breaking my country's thrall, 
I'd welcome death from the foeman's steel, 

Breathing a prayer for old Scotland's weal ; 
But here, where no pitying heart is nigh, 

By a loathsome hand it is hard to die; 
Yet come there shadow, or come there shine, 

The spider is spinning his thread so fine. 
" Time and again have I fronted the pride 



LIFE AMD RECITATIONS. 121 

Of the tyrant's vast array, 
But only to see, on the crimson tide, 

My hopes swept far away. 
Now a landless chief, and a crownless king, 

On the broad, broad earth, not a living thing 
To keep me court, save yon insect small 

Striving to reach from wall to wall : " 
For come there shadow, or come there shine, 

The spider is spinning his thread so fine. 
" Work — work as a fool, as I have done, 

To the loss of your time and pain — 
The space is too wide to be bridged across, 

You but waste your strength in vain." 
And Bruce, for the moment, forgot his grief, 

His soul now filled with the same belief, 
That howsoever the issue went, 

For evil or good was the omen sent ; 
And come there shadow, etc. 
As a gambler watches his turning card 

On which his all is staked ; 
As a mother waits for the hopeful word 

For which her soul has ached ; 
It was thus Bruce watch'd with every sense 

Centered alone in that look intense; 
All rigid he stood with unuttered breath, 

Now white, now red, but still as death ; 
Yet come there shadow, or come there shine, 

The spider is spinning his thread so fine. 
Six several times the creature tried, 

When at the seventh ; " See — see ! 
He has spanned it over," the captive cried, 

"Lo! a bridge of hope to me ; 
Thee, God, I thank — for this lesson here 

Has tutored my soul to Persevere ! " 
And it served him well, for ere long he wore 

In freedom the Scottish crown once more ; 
And come there shadow, or come there shine, 

The spider is spinning his thread so fine. 

BKOUGHAM. 



122 Til E Q UEEN OF THE DRAMA' 8 

FATHER AND DAUGHTER. 

KING LEAK. Act V.— Scene 1. 

King Lear asleep on a couch, Cordelia, seated, Physician and 
two Knights standing by him. 

Cordelia. All blessed secrets; 
All you unpublished virtues of the earth, 
Spring with my tears — be aidant and remediate, 
In the good man's distress — 
Oh, you kind heavens, 

Cure this great breach in his abused nature ; 
Th' untuned and jarring senses, oh, wind up, 
Of this child changed father. [art, 

Physician. We have employed the utmost pow'r of 
And this deep rest will perfect our design. 

Cor. Oh, Began! Goneril! Inhuman sisters! 
Had he not been your father, these white hairs 
Had challenged, sure some, pity ! Was this a face 
To be exposed against the warring winds? 
My enemy's dog, though he had bit me, should 
Have stood that night against my fire. 

JPhys. Be by, good madam, when we do awake him ; 
I doubt not of his temperance. 

Cor. Is he arrayed? 

Phys. Ay, madam, in the heaviness of his sleep 
We put fresh garments on him. 

Cor. Oh, my dear father ! Eestoration, hang 
Thy med'eine on my lips ; and let this kiss 
Eepair those violent harms, that my two sisters 
Have in thy rev'rence made. He wakes. 

[Lear is seated 
Speak to him. 

Phys. Madam, do you; 'tis fittest. [jesty ? 

Cor. How does my royal lord? How fares your ma- 

Lear. You do me wrong to take me out o' th' grave. 

Lear rises, and Cordelia supports him down to the front of 
the Stage. 

Cor. Speak to me, sir; who am I? 

Lear. You are a soul in bliss ; but I am bound 
Upon a wheel of fire, which my own tears 
Do scald like molten lead. 



LIFE AND REGIT A TI0N8. 1 23 

Cor. Sir, do you know me? 

Lear. You are a spirit, I know ; when did you die ? 

Cor. Still, still far wide. [more composed. 

Phys. Madam, he's scarce awake; he'll soon grew 

Lear. Where have I been 1 ? Where am I? Fair day- 
light? 
I am mightily abused: I should even die with pity 
To see another thus. I will not swear 
These are my hands. 

Cor. Oh, look upon me, sir, 
And hold your hand in blessing o'er me. (Lear at- 
tempts to kneel,) — Nay, 
You must not kneel. 

Lear. Pray, do not mock me: 
I am a very foolish, fond old man, 
Fourscore and upward ; and, to deal plainly, 
I fear I am not in my perfect mind. [me 

Cor. Nay, then, farewell to patience ! Witness for 
Ye mighty pow'rs, I n'er complained till now ! 

Lear. Methinks, I should know you, and know this 
man; 
Yet I am doubtful ; for I'm mainly ignorant 
What place this is ; and all the skill I have 
Kemembers not these garments ; nor do I know 
Where I did sleep last night — Pray, do not mock me ; 
For, as I am a man, I think that lady 
To be my child Cordelia. 

Cor. Oh, my dear, dear father ! [weep. 

Lear. Be your tears wet? Yes, faith: pray, do not 
I know I have given thee cause, and am so humbled 
With crosses since, that I could ask 
Forgiveness of thee, were it possible 
That thou couldst grant it ; 
If thou hast poison for me, I will drink it, 
Bless thee, and die, 

Cor. Oh, pity, sir, a bleeding heart, and cease 
This killing language. 

Lear. Tell me, friends, where am I? 

jPhys. In your own kingdom, sir, 

Lear. Do not abuse me, 



124 THE QUEEN OF THE DRAMA'S 

JPhys. Be comforted, good madam, for the violence 
Of bis distemper's past ; well lead him in, 
Nor trouble him, till he's better settled. 
Will it please you, sir, walk into freer air? 

Lear. You must bear with me, I am old and foolish ; 
Forget and forgive. 

Physician leads off King Lear, 

Cor. The gods restore you, [a distant march. 

Hark, I hear afar 

The beaten drum. Old Kent's a man of 's word. 
Oh ! for an arm 

Like the fierce thunderer's, when the earth-born sons 
Stormed heaven, to fight this injured father's battle ; 
That I could shift my sex, and dye me deep 
In his opposer's blood! But as I may, 
With women's weapons, piety and pray'rs, 
I'll aid his cause. — You never-erring gods, 
Fight on his side, and thunder on his foes 
Such tempests, as his poor aged head sustained! 
Your image suffers when a monarch bleeds ; 
'Tis your own cause ; for that your succors bring ; 
Revenge yourselves, and right an injured king. 

SHAKESPEAEE. 



THE TELEGRAPH CLERK. 

With aching eyes and fingers worn 

By private craze and public crash, 
I sit and slave from night to morn, 

And do my turn at " dot " and " dash. " 
I see that some are free to roam, 

To rest a little while and laugh ; 
But this small office is my home, 

Where I've to work the Telegraph. 

The messages come pouring in — 

From Alice "love ;" a growl from Dick 
I know what horse is bound to win ; 



LIFE AND REC1 TA TI0N8. 125 

But still this everlasting click ! 
At home, my dear, I cannot dine," 

Wires craftily some better half ; 
Would his reversion could be mine, 

But I've to work the Telegraph ; 
My fingers spin the ball that whirls 

The world's roulette from dawn to dark ; 
I plead for broken-hearted girls, 

And catch the unsuspecting clerk ; 
I'm messenger of life and death, 

The voice of fate, the jester's chaff; 
'Tis mine — the universal breath — 

Whilst I command the Telegraph ! 
Within my breast securely locked, 

I hold the secrets of the town ; 
Life hangs on me when lines are blocked, 

Without me commerce tumbles down. 
The great world stops when work is done ; 

There's rest for managers and staff, 
But for the operator — none ; 

He still must work the Telegraph ! 
In summer time I scent the breeze 

That comes from mountain and from sea, 
I seem to hear the waving trees 

Conveyed by Electricity ; 
I "touch" the towns where maidens skate, 

And long, these winter days, to laugh ; 
Why moan ? when I manipulate 

The Departmental Telegraph ! 
O, fellow-workers ! we but ask — 

Not as a favor but a right. 
Some slight concession in our task, 

A pause by day, some rest at night. 
We ask for bread, and not a stone — 

The whole of prospect, not the half. 
Come ! earn the blessing, not the groan, 

Of men who work the Telegraph ! 

CLEMENT SCOTT. 



12G THE QUEEN OF THE! DRAMA'S 

THE ROYAL WIDOW WOOED. 

RICHARD III Act Il.-Scene 1. 

Lady Anne. Hung be the heavens with black ; yield 
day to night : 
Comets importing change of times and states, 
Brandish your fiery tresses in the sky, 
And with them scourge the bad revolting stars, 
That have consented to King Henry's death. 
Oh ! be accurst the hand that had shed his blood, 
Accurst the head that had the heart to do it ! 
If ever he have a wife, let her be made 
More miserable by the life of him, 
Than I am now, by Edward's death and thine ! 

Gloster. Poor girl, what pains she takes to curse 
herself. {Aside.) 

Lady A. If ever he have a child, abortive be it, 
Prodigious, and untimely brought to light, 
Whose hideous form, whose most unnatural aspect 
May fright the hopeful mother at her view, 
And that be heir to his unhappiness ! 
Now on to Chertsey with your sacred load. 

Glos. {Advancing.) Stay, you that bear the corse, 
and set it down, 
* * * * * * rfiend"? 

Lady A. Why dost thou haunt him thus, unsated 
Thou hast but power over his mortal body ; 
His soul thou canst not reach, therefore be gone. 

Glos. Sweet saint, be not so hard, for charity. 

Lady A. If thou delight to view thy heinous deeds, 
Behold this pattern of thy butcheries. 
Why didst thou do this deed ? Could not the laws 
Of man, of nature, nor of heav'n dissuade thee 1 
No beast so fierce, but knows some touch of pity. 

Glos. If want of pity be a crime so hateful, 
How comes it thou, fair excellence, art guilty ? 

Lady A. What means the slanderer ? 

Glos. Vouchsafe, divine perfection of a woman, 
Of these my crimes supposed, to give me leave 
By circumstance but to acquit myself. 



LIFE AND RECITATIONS. 127 



Lady A. Thou wert the cause, and most accurst 
effect. 

Glos. Your beauty was the cause of that effect : 
Your beauty, that did haunt me in my sleep 
To undertake the death of all the world, 
So I might live one hour in that soft bosom ! 

Lady A. If I thought that, I tell thee, homicide. 
These hands should rend that beauty from my cheeks. 

Glos. These eyes could not endure that beauty's 
wreck : 
You should not blemish it, if I stood by : 
As all the world is nourished by the sun, 
So I by that : it is my day, my life ! 

Lady A. I would it were, to be revenged on thee. 

Glos. It is a quarrel most unnatural, 
To wish revenge on him that loves thee. 

Lady A. Say, rather, 'tis my duty, 
To seek revenge on him that killed my husband. 

Glos. Fair creature, he that killed thy husband, 
Did it to help thee to a better husband. 

Lady A. His better does not breathe upon the earth. 

Glos. {Rises.) Then bid me kill myself, and I will 
do it 

Lady A. I have already. 

Glos. That was in thy rage ; 
Say it again, and even with thy word, 
This guilty hand, that robbed thee of thy love, 
Shall, for thy love, revenge thee on thy lover ; 
To both their deaths shalt thou be accessary. 

Glos. What, not a word, to pardon or condemn me ; 
But thou art wise — and canst with silence kill me; 
Yet, even in death, my fleeting soul pursues thee : — 
Dash not the- tears of penitence away ! 

Lady A. Would'st thou not blame me to forgive thy 
crimes'? 

Glos. They are not to be forgiven ; no, not even 
Penitence can atone them! — Oh, misery 
Of thought — that strikes me with at once repentance 
And despair! — Though unpardoned, yield me pity! 



128 THE QUEEN OF THE DRAMA. 

Lady A. Would I knew thy heart! 

Glos. 'Tis figured in my tongue. 

Lady A. I fear me, both are false. 

Glos. Then never man was true ! 

Lady A. Put up thy sword. 

Glos. Say, then, my peace is made. 

Lady A. That shalt thou know hereafter. 

Glos. But shall I live in hope ? 

Lady A. All men, I hope, live so. 

Glos. Vouchsafe to wear this ring. 

Lady A. To take is not to give. 

Glos. See how the ring encompasseth thy finger, 
Even so thy breast encloseth my poor heart ; 
Wear both of them, for both of them are thine. 
I swear, bright saint I am not what I was. 
Those eyes have turned these stubborn heart to woman; 
Thy goodness makes me soft in penitence, 
And my harsh thoughts are turned to peace and love. 
Oh ! if thy poor devoted servant might 
But beg one favor at thy gracious hand, 
Thou wouldst confirm his happiness forever. 

Lady A. What is it ? [signs 

Glos. That it^ may please thee, leave these sad de- 
To him that has "most cause to be a mourner 
And presently repair to Crosby house, 
Where — after I have solemnly interred 
At Chertsey monast'ry this injured king, 
And wet his grave with my repentant tears, 
I will with all expedient duty see you. 
For divers unknown reasons, I beseech you, 
Grant me this favor. 

Lady A. I do, my lord — and much it joys me, too, 
To see you are become so penitent ! — 

SHAKESPEARE. 
THE END. 



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